


Hogwarts and the Boy Undying

by LineageOfWhimsy (WingGuardian), WingGuardian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Cthulhu Mythos, Cult of Cthulhu, Dark, F/F, F/M, M/M, Magic, Mental Afflictions, Mystery, No Harry Potter MCs, Referenced Child Abuse, Tweek and Kenny are the Main Characters, Updated tags:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:57:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3089357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingGuardian/pseuds/LineageOfWhimsy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingGuardian/pseuds/WingGuardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no magical blood in Kenny's family, and coming back from countless deaths is not a skill witches and wizards have, so Kenny never thought he'd get a letter welcoming him to Hogwarts with his friends as part of a suspiciously generous work-study program.</p><p>It's the best thing to happen to him, and he's delighted to leave the madness of South Park behind, where it belongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been dreaming of writing a Harry Potter AU forever. First it was--had to be--Homestuck, but... South Park.
> 
> There is a lot planned, a lot going to happen.
> 
> I would love feedback, thank you.

 

Kings Cross Station: Platform 9 ¾.

Chaos.

There is no other way to see it, really. Families group in clusters, packed tightly around trolleys, crossing off and double-checking lists of items scrawled in dark ink onto yellowed parchment paper in a too-late rush; giving out crushing hugs and crying, cooing at cats and frogs and owls that only added to the confusing din of noise. Whistles blow, and steam rolls onto the platform.

The Hogwarts Express, only minutes from departing, and outside it, many linger to say their last goodbyes until the winter break.

Doors shut, the horn bellows, and the churning and chugging of the steam powered engine begins to roar to life. The inside of the train is very hot; packed tight with children eleven to eighteen in traffic jams in the thin aisles, fighting for compartments and sorting themselves out in an instinctive, primal way only children have mastered.

Not everyone vied to be with their already established groups or kids they knew before the year started—some tried their best to find a quiet compartment at the very back, where they could be alone. Or, at least, where their privacy might be invaded only at the very end.

Tweek Tweak, eleven years old, had chosen the chair closest to the window, facing down the hallway so he could see if someone were approaching to join him. He was very worried, and highly agitated by the thoughts bounding through his head, and the crowd on platform 9 ¾ had worked his easily frayed nerves into a frenzy. There were so many sights and sounds, so many voices catching his attention for split seconds, only to get lost. His mother's soothing words had been overridden by his father's metaphors.

_“Son, school is like the gateway to Diagon alley: a blank wall that opens up to a magical world full of colors--colors, like the sparks given off your first wand, or the ingredients of a particularly potent potion mixing together.”_

Tweek shivers, pressed against the glass window. They've only just left the station, and it feels to him like he'd left his stomach there as well—all cold, empty, yet somehow nauseous too. Surely he forgot something, forgot everything—suddenly Tweek recalls every quill still in his desk at home, that stuffed bunny he knocked between his bed and the wall three years ago—all so horrifying, terribly necessary that very minute and distressingly _not there—_

“Oh God!” He yelps, snapping his hands up into the wild disarray of his bright yellow hair. “Oh Merlin, I'm okay! I—I— _aagh_!” He twitches, head jerking, hair tugging painfully.

“Uh, _are_ you okay?”

“ _Wah_!” Tweek's eyes fly open, dilating, startled. His advantage had been lost to his hysteria. Looking up to the door, seeing three boys standing there: a somewhat chubby brunette in the entryway wearing a red coat, the other two in the hall just behind him—a boy wearing a dark blue chullo with a yellow poof on top, and a dark skinned boy in a purple shirt.

Th brunette shrugs his shoulders high at the other two, a gesture of _'I don't know what to do'_ if Tweek ever saw one.

“Oh, God, what do you want?” He asks in a rush.

The boy in the blue hat rolls his eyes and shoves the brunette into the compartment.

“Hey!”

He flashes his friend a middle finger. “There's nowhere else to sit.” Blue hat explains to Tweek in a slow, nasally, flat voice. “Everywhere else is full.” He sits down at the window, while the brunette sorts himself out to drop down next to Tweek, who swallows a yelp of fear. His whole body trembles, and the dark skinned boy enters, taking the last available seat.

Tweek looks between the three of them like they're going to gang up and murder him any moment.

“I n-need my potion!” He cries, before covering his face with his hands. The potion in question, a drought for focus and energy brewed specifically for him, is in a special bottle charmed to refill every two hours. Unfortunately, it is in one of his bags, and to get to this bag he'd have to stand up, exposing his stomach for stabbing, and then turn his back—leaving his spine free for severing—to retrieve it from a shelf over their seats.

“...Right,” The dark skinned boy agrees calmly, eyeing Tweek. He assumes it's a tonic for his nerves, a medication of some sort. “Where is it? Did you forget it?”

Tweek looks up again, shuddering; they're all staring at him. His shoulders arch towards his ears, but the blond manages to point up at the bag over his head.

“N-ng, it's in there!”

“So why don't you get it?” The brunette beside him asks curiously. His voice is almost as nasal as the boy with the blue hat's, but there's a friendlier lean to it. Tweek twitches again, gripping his hair, and then his poorly buttoned green shirt.

He can't just _tell_ them he thinks they're going to eviscerate him if he stands up. Another excuse rushes into his head and out of his mouth just as fast.

“Nng—what if I stand up and the train crashes and I go flying and _break my head open_?”

The brunette chuckles. It's a pleasant sound, warm and well-meaning. “That's not gunna happen. Do you want me to get it?”

Tweek bites his lip. What if he steals from him? Takes all his quills and jabs them into his eyes?

Quaking, Tweek decides that is still a smaller risk than standing up and having blue hat blast through his solar plexus with a spell. Never mind that they can't use magic outside school—surely the dull expression the other wears is just a mask for a horrible and terrible dark wizard!

“U-um, if you don't mind?” He agrees-slash-asks. “It should be in the front pocket!”

The brunette stands up and steps in front of Tweek. He has to lift onto his tip-toes to reach the bag, but thankfully it doesn't come crashing down to break Tweek's face and nothing weird spontaneously appears inside to fall out and embarrass him. The potion bottle is successfully retrieved. It's dark green and heavy, cast iron with _Tweak Family Potions_ embossed in gold on the front with a flourish.

“Your family owns a potion shop?” The brunette asks, reading the name. “Tweak?”

The blond nods, brown eyes wide, and reaches for the bottle. He unscrews the cap quickly and takes a deep gulp. It's warm—it's always warm—and tastes of cashews and cacao. A surge of energy strings through his veins almost immediately. “Y-yeah,”

“That's cool.” Is the reply while the other sits down. “My name's Clyde.” A hand is offered for Tweek to shake.

Tweek looks apprehensively at the hand suddenly jutting out towards him expectantly. What if it's sweaty? What if Clyde holds his hand and never lets go again ever? What if there's an invisible tack taped to his palm that will stab him and prevent him from writing for the whole year?

“Agh,” He strains, and manages to grab Clyde's hand for a quick moment. “T-Tweek!”

Clyde blinks at him. The other two boys are staring at Tweek. To them he sounded like a bird, chirping shrilly in a tree.

“Your last name is Tweak, right? What's your first name? I'm Token Black.” Token asks-then-offers from the seat across from Clyde. “This is Craig Tucker.” He gestures the boy in the blue hat, who did not plan on introducing himself. “What's your first name?”

“Merlin, this is too much p-pressure!” Tweek squeaks. “My name is Tweek! My last name is Tweak!”

There's a moment of silence, and then:

“That's stupid.” Says Craig.

\--

Two cars down from the engine, four boys have commandeered their own cabin. Another blond covered completely by an orange parka, the hood tied tight over his face, a boy with black hair hidden under a red poofball hat, a red head desperately keeping his massive curls of hair beneath a green ushanka, and a heavy set brunette in a pale blue hat.

They've known each other for years, having grown up in the same province, a small town where Muggleborns and Pure blooded witches and wizards came together to avoid bigger living. The McCormick's were already there, the only muggles to have set up in the small town long before it attracted magical attention.

“I think I'm going to be in Ravenclaw,” Says the redhead in the green hat. “My mom was in Ravenclaw.” He's said this at least five times since sitting down.

Beside him the black haired boy in the red poofball hat sighs, rolling his eyes. “Kyle, if you're in Ravenclaw and I'm in Gryffindor we won't get to hang out as much.”

“Maybe you'll be in Ravenclaw too, Stan.” Kyle suggests. There's a book in his lap, thick and heavy, titled: _101 Properties of Toadstools_. “It could happen.”

“Maybe you'll be in Gryffindor,” Stan retorts, his voice taking on a bit of a pout.

“As if Jew boy would dare disappoint his parents.” The heavy boy laughs. “Bring dishonor on the whole family!”

“Shut up Cartman, there's nothing wrong with Gryffindor!” Stan fires back.

“It's better than Hufflepuff,” Cartman sneers. “But it's no Slytherin.” Stan rolls his eyes, slumping in his seat.

“What about you, Kenny? What house do you want to be in?” Stan asks the quiet blond covered in orange.

Kenny shrugs, mumbling, _"I don't know, maybe Slytherin too,"_  into his parka. He's got a house in mind, but can't imagine actually getting in at the moment; hell, a few months ago he didn't even think he'd be going to school. Even though he'd heard so much about the schools for magic growing up, his family was completely cut off from the culture of the magical community. His friend's talked to him about wizard things, but it never really affected him or gave him any hope before.

“Yeah right. Poor people aren't allowed in Slytherin.” Cartman scoffs, digging a chocolate bar out of his pocket. Kenny eyes it hungrily. “It's against the rules.”

“Fuck you!”

“'Ay! Just cuz--”

“Oh my God, shut up Cartman.” Stan groans. Kyle snorts, turning the page on his book. Kenny falls quiet again, as if Stan had been talking to him, too. Cartman had taken the widow seat, pushing Kenny out of it when he'd gotten to it first, so he has to look past the brunette to see outside. Nothing but the English countryside.

“Can't believe I have to go to school in fucking Britain.” Cartman grouses when he realizes what Kenny's so focused on. “Bunch'a pussies.”

“Shut up Cartman,” Kyle repeats irately, closing the book finally. “You'll get kicked out of Hogwarts if the wrong teacher hears you say shit like that. Besides, the school is in _Scotland._ ”

Cartman glares. “Whatever, Jew! It's not like we don't all know this already, Kyle. You just don't want to admit that American wizards are just stronger than these British fags!”

“Where do you think all the best American wizards went to school, dumbass? Besides, aren't you the one who _begged_ your mom to send you to Hogwarts when we all got letters from the different schools?” Kyle snaps back loudly. Stan is thankful that he closed the door to their cabin behind him when he entered. Cartman crosses his arms, shoving the rest of the chocolate bar into his mouth and refusing to answer. 

“Oh my God.” Stan repeats, closing his eyes.

 

–-

 

It's quiet for another few hours. The trolley of amazing and diverse snacks has come and gone. Stan bought Kenny a chocolate frog that he'd delighted in letting crawl over his fingers once the one good bounce it had was used before eating it, and two gummy wands before Cartman managed to scare the attendant away with his insults towards all things British.

Happy with _something_ in his stomach, Kenny watches the portrait of Renley Wenlock, the Headmaster at the school they're all going to be at soon, smile and wink, and disappear from the card he pulled from the chocolate frog's container. It's fascinating to Kenny; there was no magic in his family before him, at least that his drink enthusiastic parents, estranged from their own parents (aside from Kenny's grandfather, whom had no magic at all) and siblings could remember. Thankfully South Park had been accepting towards having a muggle family remain living there. 

When an owl landed on top of a beat up piece of shit car in the front lawn with a letter for Kenny (the only letter he got--) --he was finally brought into the fold. It happened in such a rush, too. Before he knew it mother, father and middle child were in the presence of a Hogwarts employee, and off to make Kenny a proper wizard.

What an adventure it had been—two very out of place, white trash parents from the sticks with absolutely zero dollars to spend and less magic between them, suddenly taken to Diagon Alley with their scruffy child in a flurry of green fire.

It had been terrifying and exhilarating and wonderful... Until the price tags started to become overwhelming.

But apparently the Ministry for Magic and Hogwarts had room for charity cases as well. Dedication of financial aid aimed to bring in magic users from low-income households and give them an education by providing tuition, books, and supplies in a work study program.

When the representative Ministry employee from the branch of Economical Outreach and Blood Inclusion had met the McCormicks: Carol, Stuart and Kenny in their humble home, leaving Kenny's older brother Kevin, and his younger sister Karen in the care of a family friend, to whisk the three of them off to London and Diagon Alley, Kenny'd felt so much joy he thought himself fit to burst.

Neither mother, father, nor son knew what to expect, passing all the glittering stores stuffed with soon-to-be students and returning clans, but a small building in poor repair with one angry associate working the counter hadn't been it.

They'd reluctantly set him up with a highly used pair of robes, sweater vest and white shirt gray at the sleeves with age and grime, all probably a full seven years old; shoes a size too big, worn through enough to have holes along the heel, and supplies (cauldron, trunk, cage for his rat brought from home, books and more) that were obviously second or fifth hand. The only thing he was provided with that was new was a wand (Unicorn Tail hair, ten and a half inches, Alder wood), and parchment rolls.

Even second, third, or seventh hand, it was obvious the items cost a lot of money. Though the system of it was something Kenny didn't understand yet.

He's sure he's going to leave school with a huge amount of student loans, all in the kind of money muggles don't earn, but that concern takes a back seat to simply hoping that in a couple years his sister will be joining him at the school and he can watch out for her here. It weighs on Kenny's mind, knowing she's in that cold, barren house with no one to protect her from school bullies and hunger.

Thankfully Kevin promised to watch over her for him—as reliable as he is to be shaky in his reliableness, it is better than nothing. He has other, darker worries to focus on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still not at Hogwarts. Getting there tho.  
> Reviews would be highly appreciated <3

“We should put on our robes.” Kyle announces, breaking the dreary silence of their cabin a while later. It's dark outside the windows now, and the roar of the wheels on the track and the bellows of steam have long become a buzz of numbing background noise. Cartman grumbles, half asleep stretched out over his and Kenny's seats, murmuring, “Jews can't be wizards _Kahl_ ,” before Kyle kicks him in the side. " _Ay!_ Son of a bitch!"

Stan stretches broadly. His body has never liked being in the same position for very long, easily cramping. He blinks his eyes open to Cartman's unhappy growling, and spots Kenny half asleep on the floor, his head pillowed in his arms on the seat. Cartman had pushed Kenny off after their friends had started to drift off, taking most of his seat up with his legs, complaining that poor assholes didn't need cushions and he did.

“Kenny... Kenny wake up,” Stan leans down and shakes Kenny's shoulder. One of his fingers gets caught in a hole in the orange parka, thin with age, and rips the seam a little further.

“ _Stan_...?” Kenny sits up straight, a wince hidden under his hood from the awkward position. Stan lifts his hand away, trailing an orange thread. “ _Are we there_?” He mumbles.

“Nah, we're not there yet. But Kyle says we should change now.” Stan helps Kenny up before turning for his bags to pull out his uniform. All their robes are blank, simple black, and lacking ties in the package, all of which would be different when they were sorted into their houses.

Kyle is first to leave to find a bathroom, and Stan follows him quickly. Cartman has no shame around someone too poor to have any of his own, and pulls off his clothes right there. Kenny tugs the robes on over top his parka.

England is cold.

–-

“Tweek, aren't you going to get dressed?” Token asks, fiddling with the long sleeves of his robe primly. The black wool feels good against his skin, and he cannot help but think of all the ways in which he'll soon be making his parents proud.

“ _Ghhh_ —yes?” Tweek's teeth grind, and he slowly unfolds his sore limbs, one at a time, coming out of his shell. He'd been meditating ( _access_ _your quiet place_ ) though his eyes were open, staring ahead.

“We're gunna be at the castle soon. You should put your robes on.” Token repeats gently. Tweek's head jerks, and he stands up. He can only just reach the shelf above him, and he has to cover his head with both arms, shrieking, when the bags of clothes tumble on top of him.

“M-Merlin! I'm going to die before school even--even ss-starts!”

“No you won't.” Craig rebuffs in stoic intonation.

Clyde helps Tweek pick up the bags and together they fish out Tweek's starter robes. The blond scurries off to the bathroom, muttering to himself worriedly.

The other boys sit in peace and quiet for the time it takes Tweek to dress and find his way back to them. He's clutching at his wand in one hand ( _Hazel, 9 inches, Veela Hair core_ ) as if he were going to beat away monsters with it rather than cast spells, and his potion bottle in the other.

“Oh, God, oh, Merlin, I-I'm not ready for this!” He titters, eyes out the widows, seeing the lights in the distance, rapidly approaching. They reach for the skies, tall as a mountain.

“You'll be fine, Tweek. I bet some of us will be in the same house, too! And since we're friends now you'll be okay.” Clyde grins, scratching his nose. He wants to look outside too, but Tweek's body becomes a hard line of fear when he gets closer.

“Man, but what i-if I'm _not_?” Tweek whimpers, pulling away from the cold glass. The train is obviously slowing down, the squealing of the breaks echoing down the corridors. “What i-if the Sorting Hat says I'm n-no good and they kick me out?”

“Uh... I don't think you could have gotten a wand if you were a Squib... right?” Clyde assures, making an assumption on what Tweek is concerned over, looking to Craig and Token for confirmation. He only receives shrugs in response. “Right.” He affirms anyways.

Tweek whimpers, and closes his eyes tightly. The train comes to a stop.

-–

There is a woman waiting for them just off the train standing on an actual soap box ( _'Mystical Marvin's Magical Soap!'_ it reads, upside down), and several witches and wizards that appear seemingly just to collect their bags and then vanish again. Tweek hands over his duffel with barely functioning motor skills. There are so many strangers. Between the students and the faculty collecting belongings and pets there must be a hundred of them, two hundred, three hundred or more. It's enough to give him a full on panic attack.

Tweek breathes shallowly, heart racing, heat enveloping his chest and between his ears, lifting the weight from his feet and knocking him into a carriage. He ducks under the False Breeching Dee and the Mounting Steps, not even registering the cavity where a horse should be. In his mind somewhere is the guess that it's an unused carriage, out of order, empty on purpose.

“S-so much pressure!” Jagged nails claw at the heavy wool of his black robe. “I-I can't do this, oh sweet Merlin, please! Get me outta here!” Tweek crawls under the Box Seat, curling up while he watches the writing mass of over excited students light lanterns and cluster into huge black clouds. He tries to breathe, but it's like pulling sludge into his lungs—impossible. The air smells heavily of stale water.

“Tweek?” Clyde calls, standing behind Craig and Token, who barely noticed the blond escape once the door opened. He looks around quickly, eyes snapping in different directions to find the boy. Most of the students off the train are peeling off from the first year crowd, going towards a gathering of empty carriages. He wonders why, until—

“Alright lads and lasses, gather 'round!” A gruff voice calls. Clyde turns around, his focus distracted from the hunt for Tweek. “Gather 'round! All ya first years' be comin' with me!” Tall and thick limbed, the woman with graying red hair pulled into a loose bun stands atop her soap box yells.

“My name is Cassandra Lapenine and I am Gameskeeper for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I will be leading all o' you firsties to the waiting hall by boat while your seniors get settled in. Do I have all of ya?”

Clyde swivels round again, worried now that Tweek is going to miss the boat and get in trouble. Not seeing his wild hair, Clyde tugs on Craig and Tokens' robes.

“ _Guys_ , Tweek isn't here!” Clyde says in an attempt at a whisper.

“So?” Replies Craig, uninterested.

“So? We have to find him!” Clyde jumps a few steps away, looking around anxiously.

“I'm not going to miss my boat because of some kid.” Craig replies in a deadpan. Clyde groans, Token wavers, and the brunette leaves his friends to go find Tweek.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oof. All information is taken from Harry Potter wikipedias and random perusings--I don't have copies of the books right now and I don't remember much of how some places look from the movies. But I'm trying to be reasonably accurate!

Tweek was starting to calm down. He had begun to gain some control of himself, getting his heart to slow down just a few beats. That is, until people start climbing into the carriage he is currently huddled beneath.

His moans of horror are not heard over the din of the clambering students all thrilled to be back at school and seeing their friends again. The Box Seat lowers, weighed down by the piling bodies. Tweek has a horrifying realization that this carriage is not going to stay motionless long and he's going to DIE if he stays under it.

There is more than one confused child when Tweek goes bolting from underneath the carriage, tripping over himself in his hurry to escape and shrieking.

“What the hell?” Someone above is bewildered.

“What?” A girl asks, looking around quickly for a cause of the shrill noise.

“There was some kid hiding under the coach...”

Tweek must be under the protection of some God or Goddess, for he runs headlong right into Clyde. The collision knocks him onto the ground, leaves his poor head wringing.

“Oh God, oh God, _nooo_...” Tweek whines, twitching to his feet. “N-need my potion,” Clyde steps back, not helping Tweek straighten up.

“We gotta go.” The brunette worries. “We're going to miss the first year boats. C'mon, Tweek, I don't wanna get left behind.” He reaches for the blond's hand to pull him along. “Where'd you leave your potion?”

“I-I dunno, man, it was so long ago!” Tweek allows himself to be pulled, or otherwise is unable to resist Clyde's tugging; he doesn't want to be left behind either. Clyde sighs—he bets the blond dropped it and his wand when he ran out of the train. Hopefully Token picked them up if so.

“It'll be okay.” Clyde promises, bringing Tweek to the crowd of first years already breaking off into small clusters to climb onto the boats. Cassandra Lapenine is in a boat of her own, topped with a bright lantern, and another in her hand. None of the boats, despite being small rowers, have oars.

The boats begin to move on their own, sliding off the bank and into the cold water, drifting with purpose towards the looming castle.

“Alright firsties!” She yells. “We're off to Hogwarts!” Shadows cut across her face from the glow of many little flames as she laughs, boisterous and cheerful. “Mind yer fingers! There be a giant squid lurking in this lake!”

Tweek latches onto Clyde's arm, clinging to the brunette. He's glad they've reunited with Token and Craig too, sitting together in this little boat; the former of which displays relief at the rejoining of their group.

“Thank goodness you guys made it back. Don't be running off like that,” He pointedly requests of Tweek. “We can keep an eye on you if you stay with us.”

“B--but how do I know if I can t-trust you?” Tweek moans, sitting in the middle of the boat, curling up tight. “H-how good are you at d-defeating giant squid?”

“I eat squid sometimes.” Craig says in his flat voice before Token can answer. Tweek's eyes peek open, growing wide with wonder. His shaking body takes on a tenser jitter.

“That's a-amazing. You must be a really s-strong wizard!”

Craig shrugs, not bothering to elaborate on the concept of sushi, and then reaches under his cloak to pull out Tweek's bottle and wand from the waistband of his pants. He holds them out to Tweek, who gasps and snatches them, sitting his wand beside his foot to give favor the potion bottle, which he opens as fast as his trembling fingers will allow.

“W-where did you find these?” He demands, drinking heavily. “Did you _take_ them?”

“You threw them on the ground when you got off the train.” Craig answers after a moment, unphased. “Before you ran away.”

–

Kenny is glad he decided to pull his cloak on over his parka. He's probably going to be forced to change in accordance to the dress code, but for now it's comforting. And warm. He's never seen so much dark water, as Stark's pond is really more of a puddle in comparison, and the lights from the lanterns and the looming castle in the distance are gorgeous. Everything screams of enchantment and daydream. For a few moments the boy forgets where he's coming from and embraces where he's going.

“This is so stupid.” Cartman grouses, interrupting Kenny's musings. “What the fuck is this boat shit? We're at a goddamned castle and they send us in these rickety pieces of ass? This isn't magic. I am so writing the Ministry.”

“It has to be magic to be keeping your fat ass afloat.” Kyle snaps back, having been in an appreciative mood much like Kenny, quiet and contemplative.

“Yeah, Cartman. The boats are moving themselves—that's pretty awesome.” Stan says, eager to be on Kyle's side.

“You just don't know what magic is.” Cartman huffs. “This is like... cables and pulleys.”

“ _Yes I do_.” Kenny murmurs into his parka.

“No one asked you, you poor asshole! You shouldn't even be here!”

“Shut up! We're almost there!” Kyle snaps, attention drawn away from the others as they approach the castle. It's huge—massive—feeling bigger and more grand than any of the mountains back in South Park. It radiates power, the walls themselves ancient and impenetrable looking, with suits of stone armor stationed along every border. Owls soar over the ramparts, gliding up into the sky and out over the lake and out of view, hunting under the full moon.

Kenny almost wants to be one of them—soar above it all. Something as simple as the messenger owls making Hogwarts all the more real to him. He gets lost in the wind moving over his skin until the Gameskeeper breaks him out of it again.

“Alright, firsties!” Cassandra crows from the lead boat. “We're here! When yer boat stops, climb carefully onto the sand and then grab yer lanterns to follow me!”

Stan and Kyle help each other over the sides of the boat together, once the bottom sticks to the sandy bank, and Cartman follows, shoving Kenny behind him to keep the blond from leaving first. Wood creaks and the boat rocks with Cartman's weight. Kenny sighs to himself, stepping over the edge and onto solid ground again.

The beach is growing crowded, louder, writhing with excited children nervous with energy and anticipation. Most of them have been preparing for this their whole lives. There's a screech, and a boy not too far from the four is being carefully pulled from the small row boat he was in, shaking like a leaf in a storm, green-faced.

Kenny watches curiously as the wild haired one crowds against another boy just a few inches taller than him. The other two in their group seem—concerned? One does, at least.

He's no time to introduce himself or stay interested before the gathered first years begin moving in a herd towards—something. Kenny can't see what from way in the back.

“ _Zis_ is ridiculous,” An unhappy voice says beside him. Kenny startles, not even realizing someone was beside him; having his peripheral cut off by the hood is not always an advantage.

“ _What is_?” He asks, observing. Tall for his age, perhaps, with dirty brown hair and large ears. His eyes are tired, deep set, angry in a tanned face. He's wearing fingerless leather gloves over dry, mud crusted hands that clench as if he were missing something in them.

“ _Zis._ 'Erding us into _ze_ castle like cattle,” He grabs his bottom lip under a sharp canine. Kyle and Stan pause curiously ahead of Kenny. Cartman slows reluctantly and unhappily.

Kenny chuckles. He immediately takes a liking to his new walking companion. Brown eyes focus on Kenny sharply, this one too aware and too cynical for just an eleven year old. There's a run of old magic in his eyes, more amber than not, and he is judging Kenny and his ruddy robes, old and not-so-black anymore over a even more worn and torn orange parka. He's practically counting the dots of freckles barely visible on Kenny's face under the scruff of aged faux fur.

The brunette scoffs and looks away. His steps speed up, and in a moment he is gone, to the side of a curly haired blond his own height. Kenny faintly catches a British accent, composed and expectant. After a moment Kenny shrugs and catches up with Kyle and Stan.

–

“Alright,” Cassandra stops them all in a long and wide hallway lined with ancient stone and magnificent draperies in blacks and navy blues. Massive portraits hang on the dark stone walls, fabulous renditions of famous witches and wizards and mystical beasts. Amazingly, the subjects of the paintings all come to life around the students. Animated productions swinging and swooping in and out of their frames.

“ _Welcome, new students!_ ” Cheers an older man, somewhere over a hundred, in maroon robes, a beard of bushy red on his chin, giddily.

He's not the only one. Cries echo around them, the whinnies of painted unicorns and the welcoming cheers of Hogwarts alumni years and years past.

“ _Welcome to Hogwarts! Welcome!_ ”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here.. we have the sorting. Thank you to my reviewers and my kudosers and my readers! I highly appreciate the feedback ^_^
> 
> I chose a last name I've seen used before for Christophe, so... sorry for not making up one.
> 
> Ps. I pulled the Sorting Hat's song out of my ass (which is why it sucks. pfffft)

They wait in an excited huddle outside the doors to the great hall. The second to seventh years have already been sat, and the staff taken to their places at the head of the room. Cassandra is joined by a portly man with jolly green eyes and fanciful emerald robes to match.

“Attention! Attention young students!” He calls. Slowly the anxious crowd of first years bring themselves under some control. Tweek's uncomfortable shriek is the last loud noise to echo around them. “Good, good. Now, I'm going to lead you all into the great hall, and the Sorting Hat will be brought out to get you all in your places. Then we feast!” He's met with happy cries and excited chatter.

“Finally,” Cartman mutters. Kyle kicks his ankle. “ _Ay_!”

“Shh!” Stan hisses. His whole attention goes from Kyle back to the front. Kenny stands beside him, silent, too wrapped up in the fantastical setting around him to care.

Tweek huddles close to Clyde, having latched onto him as the only one he can trust, even shakily. “ _I'm not ready!_ ” He whimpers. “I s-should just go home!” Clyde did not come to Hogwarts intending to pick up a pet—but he's seemed to have collected one anyways. An anxious puppy or a fretful mouse. He strokes Tweek's arm gently.

“It'll be okay,” Clyde comforts awkwardly. “We're just going to get sorted. We'll probably be in the same house.”

Craig sighs; he's already tired and bored of all this. The mysticism of Hogwarts hasn't sunken in past his _been there_ and _done that_ attitude. And this... addition to their group is changing their dynamics. Instead the black haired boy watches the doors part, opening to reveal a massive mess hall. Table after table packed with students in four colors of trim on black robes beneath four banners, one for each house.

Attention turns to the newcomers, the first years waiting to find their places.

“Oh, god,” Tweek quakes under the attention. “They're all looking at me!” He hugs his potion bottle to his chest, hunching in at the shoulders. Clyde is distracted by the sea of candles hovering in the air above their heads, below an impossible night sky.

“Woah...”

“I've read about this,” Token comments quietly. “It's a spell to make the ceiling look like the sky outside does.”

“That's so cool!”

“It's a little cool.” Craig agrees, meeting eyes with a fourth year girl staring at the crowd of first years curiously. He flashes her his middle finger and she looks away, startled.

Tweek unscrews the cap from his potion bottle and drinks until it is empty. Every gulp tenses the coiling wires inside him even tighter—it's supposed to be a good thing.

Through the crashing waves of a rushing mind absorbing an addictive syrup of flavor mixed with magic, Tweek watches the headmaster stand from his center seat and call for silence with a simple gesture of his hand. The room falls into an expectant, respectful hush.

Kenny, his crowd not far from Tweek at all, is mesmerized instantly. Everything sings to a vein coursing through his body that he'd never been able to give life before. And this man—the headmaster of Hogwarts, brought him here.

Renley Wenlock is not a particularly impressive figure, and he's much younger looking than Kenny would've expected. He looks just like his collectible card: a thin, long face, gray eyes under graying brows with lines aside them. His once black hair is mostly gray, going down his shoulders. Behind two round glasses, thick and purple of frame, wise eyes stare out into the crowd of students under his guidance.

“I trust you are all quite well tonight?” He speaks, voice no higher than he would surely have used in a close conversation with friends. Nobody answers him—Kenny thinks that maybe they're not supposed to. “I know our new students are anxious to proceed. It's been a long day for everyone and I'm sure you're all hungry.” Truer words.

“We're going to bring out the Sorting Hat, and let the fun begin!”

“Here we go!” Kyle exclaims, fists clenched and excited. Stan grins widely at his best friend. He's so sure they're both going to be in Gryffindor together, and it'll be a slumber party every night. Cartman is more dubious, despite the ideas running through his head. There is so much to accomplish in these seven years, he believes, as he intends to become Minister of Magic when he graduates, and won't his friends be sore then?

But Kenny—in his heart which beats so close to the surface of thin skin pulled taut over his ribs—embraces the power the future promises; a better life.

A woman in black robes with brown hair tied tightly in a bun on her head comes from outside the room, in her hands an old, manky looking pointed hat is delicately held. Another teacher sets a tall stool of pale oak before the faculty table, and the hat is set upon it.

To the amazement of many, the hat begins to move on its own. The folds and creases and a tear along the rim crinkle together until it has the image of a crude face.

 _“You can call me just a hat,”_ The Sorting Hat's smooth voice begins in a lilt of melody. _“And it would be true. But a hat like me you've never seen, and a tale like mine there's never been!”_

Kenny snickers, despite being rapt in his attention. A singing hat—that's just bizarre!

_“I've seen great wizards come and go, and four of whom you clearly know: brave Gryffindor, with courage true. Wise Ravenclaw, who's mind shone through. Cunning Slytherin, who's pride in blood you surely knew, and humble Hufflepuff, whom with hard work proved there was nothing one couldn't do.”_

A cheer of claps rang through the great hall and died quickly.

_“As the years have passed and legends born, let us move into the future, and have new oaths sworn! By magic, might and a clever mind, never say no, when it comes to being kind!”_

The hat's song comes to a close, and applause waves through the gathered students and staff again. Except for Cartman, who rolls his eyes.

“Gay.”

“Shut the hell up Cartman!” Kyle snaps, as silence descends again. The anticipation in the room is electric. The same woman whom brought out the hat clears her throat loudly.

“When I call your name you will come up to the front, sit on the chair and I will place the Sorting Hat upon your head. At which point your house will be decided. Then you will join them at their table.” She unfurls an exceptionally long parchment, which curls at the bottom, yet still touches the floor.

“Bebe Stevens!”

A short girl with long blond hair curling thickly around her shoulders moves swiftly up to the stool. She's nervous, being the first. The teacher picks up the hat so Bebe may sit, and places it gently on her head.

It is only a few seconds before the hat calls out the first house of the night: “ _Gryffindor_!”

The Gryffindor table cheers, beaming at her. They welcome Bebe to their table by scooting over and making room, some of them hurriedly introducing themselves before the next student is called.

“Christophe De'Lorne!”

“ _Muzer_ of fuck,” The dirt stained brunette curses to himself quietly. He moves up to the front, glaring at the hat and the teacher distrustfully. He sits, as expected of him, tense on the chair and ready to spring.

“ _Slytherin_!”

Welcomes erupt from the Slytherin table, sleek hair and dark eyes embracing the angry young man.

“Clyde Donovan!” Continues the professor.

Clyde gives Tweek's arm a little pat, disengaging the trembling blond and foisting him off to Craig, onto whom Tweek quickly latches, squirming. Grinning, Clyde trots up.

“ _Hufflepuff_!” Announces the Sorting Hat, and Clyde slides carefully off the tall seat, still smiling. He is given a hearty, friendly hello by his fellows.

“Craig Tucker!”

Now it is Token's turn to handle Tweek, as Craig departs at a slow pace for his fate.

“Oh man, oh god, I just can't take this!” Tweek whimpers into Token's shoulder.

“You're gunna be just fine, Tweek,” Token consoles awkwardly.

“ _Nng--_!”

“ _Gryffindor_!” Yells the hat. Craig finds a place to sit at the table, and barely acknowledges the rest of them.

“Eric Cartman!”

Grinning, Eric saunters up to the front of the crowd. He wants to make it clear from the start that he intends on taking over the school—whatever that means.

The hat doesn't even touch his head before, “ _Slytherin_!”, it cries. Cartman takes his place according to plan, smirking smugly all the way.

–----

“See, I told you assholes I would be in Slytherin.” Cartman boasts later, just after the first night's feast ended, the ghosts had scared and startled, the heads of house introduced themselves.

Everyone begins to crowd back into the halls to be divided and led to their respective dorms. Nearly Headless Nick soars overhead, watched avidly by gasping first years, and slips invisible into the ceiling.

Stan rolls his eyes. “Nobody was betting against you Cartman—”

“--We all knew you'd end up in Slytherin.” Kyle finishes.

Cartman huffs, momentarily put out that they weren't surprised.

“Well screw you guys. You all are exactly where I suspected you all would be: in the weaker houses. Good thing none of you got put into Hufflepuff or we couldn't be friends anymore.”

“There's nothing wrong with Hufflepuff.” Kyle grits out.

“It's not a good place to be, _Kahl_ ,” Cartman emphasizes. “I'm honestly surprised Kenny made it into Gryffindor—everybody knows poor people aren't brave.”

“---- ---!” Kenny curses, glaring at Cartman through the parting of his hood. He remembers the Sorting Hat murmuring in his head, asking if he'd be happier in Hufflepuff, though more to itself than to him, where it promised that kind souls find many friends. He's not about to tell Cartman he asked to be in Gryffindor to nurture his need to be brave and strong.

It's dark in the castle, and the fabric partially obscuring his eyes isn't helping. Kenny stumbles, rights himself, and shrugs off a few of the weirder looks he's getting.

“Guys, can we not do this?” Stan asks in a sigh. He's sulking because he and Kyle aren't in the same house, and honestly, having Kenny in Gryffindor with him isn't much of a consolation prize. At least he's not stuck with Cartman.

“Alright everyone! The Prefect's are here, so start getting into groups by house!” Lapenine yells over the conversations.

Kyle frowns, and Stan is pouting, and they give each other a _look_ , before Kenny and Stan have to peel away and join the rest of the Gryffindors on the other side of the Slytherins. Cartman sneers at Kyle, leaving him alone with the rest of the Ravenclaws.

Craig had had the displeasure of standing nearby the four boys. He is relieved when the loudest two peel off and go away. He is deeply irritated at being the only one of his own friends that was put into Gryffindor.

“Do I have all my Gryffindors?” A tall fifth year girl calls. She scans the crowd for familiar colors and faces and the crowd of newbies at the head. “My name is Isabelle Brown and I am the Gryffindor Prefect. I'm here to help you settle in and get adjusted to staying here at Hogwarts.”

A badge sits on her chest, sewn into her robe: a large “P”.

Beside her, proud and severe in appearance though he is smiling a little, is Edgar Reid, the Gryffindor head of house. He stands beside Isabelle and lets her lead.

“There's a lot of rules here, so I will be going through those with you later. I know the castle is huge and probably daunting for all the new comers, but don't worry—you'll catch on quickly. Now, if you'll follow me!”

Isabelle and Edgar turn to guide them down the halls towards an impressive array of stair cases going up and up and up, bridging the many floors and—

“The stairs do move, so plan to leave for classes up on these floors early.” Isabelle warns, voice tinged with amusement.

Kenny finds himself gravitating slowly towards the bottom of the stairs, wanting to investigate, and Stan seems to follow him instinctively without Kyle to guide him. He curiously watches the boys and girls around them move on ahead of him and Stan. As much as he wants to just stay and explore, he also can't wait to get to their dorms and collapse into bed. He's exhausted, and stuffed full for the first time since the last birthday of one of his friends.

The next day will begin their training as wizards.

 


	5. We Begin Titling With Roommates and Schedules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO so much to my sweet reviewers and my kind kudosers! I can't believe it's been almost a month! I had much trouble with the set up of this chapter, as it's still more world building and establishment--but I've left some clues for future events.  
> I enjoy slow build, and setting the proper framework for my plots so they make sense. This involves a good bit of research and re-writing, haha... anyways, in return for the wait and the buildup here's a longer chapter than the last one :)  
> The next chapter is when the ideas that inspired this fiction start to really come up.  
> I appreciate your patience, your comments, your attention very much. Thank you!

A wide birch table pulled up close to a warm fire in a stone place set against a red toned mural of one of the Hunt of the Unicorn tapestries waits for curious and experienced students alike in the Gryffindor Common Room, conveniently between the boy and girls staircases. A velveteen crimson sofa and two matching lounge chairs had been pulled back to make room for it, and candles had been lit at the center for more light.

Many of the Gryffindors had blown past the table, exhausted from excited nerves and a decadent feast, straight to the dorms, to wait till morning to care. Others didn't even notice the spread. Craig was almost one of them; there gathered a small crowd at the table, and he disliked congregations. However he was also a practical child, and if there was a group forming it usually meant there was something he needed to pay attention to.

Craig stands behind a girl with curly blond hair, and a boy with short black hair, waiting for an opening.

“--Me mum says I gots to pay close attention to Defense Against the Dark Arts this year or she'll box my ears round,” The boy was saying to her. “Don't know why she's all bent on it though, s'not like I need it much.”

“Defense Against the Dark Arts?” The blond girl responds curiously, holding a sheet of parchment in her hand. Craig huffs, waiting for them to make a space for him. They're lingering, and they probably would have continued to do so if his impatient shifting hadn't alerted the other brunette to his presence.

“Sorry chum,” He grins sheepishly, stepping off to the side, before returning his focus to the girl who moves aside him, leaving an empty place for Craig at the table. “Yes—it's all about protecting yourself from evil magics and the like, but it's mostly theory anyways. We've not had any dark folks runnin' 'round in years! Not since—“

Craig tunes them out, categorizing their conversation as pointless and irrelevant to him. He observes stacks of papers—seven exactly—and he picks up one of the pieces of parchment closest to him to find it's a list of classes for the next day.

There's no names on them of any student, leading the assumption that everyone has the same list—but on the top is written  **Gryffindor: 2** **nd**   **Year, First Week**. He puts it back.

With the first year's first week's list in hand, Craig goes quietly down to the boy's dormitory.

\--

Night in the Gryffindor dorms has lingered well towards dawn with anxious and excited, nervous and thrilled energy. Stan and Kenny chose beds beside each other, changing into their night clothes as soon as they had, and the blond watched Stan as he unpacked and repacked an extensive amount of clothing and items he will probably never use or wear out of and back into his trunk.

There are six beds in a circle facing each other in their room, dark velvet curtains offering a modicum of privacy for each ornately carved wood frame, plush mattress, and only two others are taken. One by a boy in a blue hat who sat down and immediately closed the curtains around his bed, and a tall red head who had pulled out a quill and parchment and begun writing a letter home already.

Kenny sits on the edge of his bed, a white and brown rat in his lap sniffing at his fingers. Its small feet and little claws prickle over his skin as the rat moves around. An orange cat weaves between bedposts, uncaring of the prey sitting in Kenny's hand.

“There's so many classes,” Stan says suddenly, interrupting Kenny's blank mind space.

“Mhm,” He agrees.

“Do you think we'll have classes with other houses?” Stan asks hopefully. Kenny shrugs.

“I dunno. You're the one with a wizard for a dad, dude, you tell me.”

Stan purses his lips, thoughtful and distant. His gaze is drawn to a floor length window between their beds, and the heavy full moon shining outside it. A soft glow enchants on every surface, glittering on the ripples of the lake. Kenny peers out as well, placing his rat on the bed so he can get up to stand before the cool glass.

“I wish Kyle were here.”

Kenny thinks of the one he wishes were here: his sister. He touches the clear surface, feeling the chill on his fingertips, and frowns at the faint reflection of himself; blond and thin, blue eyed and short, and wonders if he belongs.

\--

Up til the touch of pink grazing the horizon, thoughts churning like butter, spattered with revelations and fears, Kenny barely notices the sun rising until the room filled with the sounds of boys waking up and putting themselves together for the day. They make quite the ruckus, blathering on about their first classes and knocking books and papers around in haste.

Stan, whom had passed out with a terribly melancholy expression, wakes up sullen, and barely acknowledges Kenny as he dresses in the brisk morning air.

Shivering, Kenny pulls his thin night shirt off and pulls on his parka before shedding his pants for the black trousers of the uniform. He pulls over top the white shirt, vest, tie and the cloak.

Despite having eaten more the previous night than he has ever eaten in his life, Kenny is starving, and possibly more excited about breakfast than the lessons that follow it.

He rolls up his parchment, ink and quills, the schedule, and a pile of books and shoves them into the same backpack he's used since elementary school. He barely gets the zipper closed. A brown and white rat squeaks for morning pets, and curls back up to sleep again under Kenny's soft finger strokes.

“You ready to go?” Stan asks, impatient. He's rocking on his toes, a blue messenger bag slung over his shoulder, brand new thick canvas stretched around the weight of his day.

“Yep,” Kenny replies easily, heaving his load and pulling up his hood.

–--

Kenny and Stan had nearly made it to the Great Hall when a teacher, standing in the hallway crossroads to help new students navigate the maze of floors and doors, stops him.

“I must ask you to remove your orange sweater.” Her put upon, aged voice calls. It's as effective as stiff fingers in the back of his collar, like his dad used to do, stopping  _that fool boy_  from running, sugar high, headlong into walls. “It is against the dress code—especially that hood. And the condition of it...” She tuts.

“---...”

“No buts, young man. You still have time before breakfast; return to Gryffindor Tower and change out of that.”

Kenny frowns, fingering the cuff of his orange sleeve under the wool cloak and white long sleeve. It's not something he's very comfortable with—taking it off that is. Having the parka on makes him feel safer, but if it's the rules he'll have to take it off. Her eyes are expectant for him to obey; a mother and grandmother hundreds of times over to the most obedient and rebellious of children and teenagers.

He looks to Stan, who shrugs helplessly, casting an anxious glance to the next corridor down the way. “I'll see you there, Kenny.” He doesn't wait, but hurries on. The teacher is still intent on him, patient for obedience. Reluctantly, Kenny turns back.

Running back to Gryffindor tower, he passes clusters and gaggles of students traveling in packs to the Great Hall, excited for the possibilities of the day. He starts up the stairs, gasping breaths that suck in faux fur hairs, to the guarding portrait, pulling the hood aside to announce:

“Raspberry truffles!”

A portly woman decked in too many colors and flowers barely opens her mouth to speak out to him before she sniffs and has to let him pass.

“Rude! So young, but still so rude!” She snips.

He moves through the open portal, the hung art frame swinging shut behind him. There are other students still in the common room, some more relaxed than others, but he doesn't pay attention to them. He nearly trips over himself to get upstairs and get into his trunk with the dozen or so dents and the broken lock and the ripped lining.

Since it cannot be locked, Kenny unlatches the hinge and pushes the black lid open. He then stands, undoing buttons and hidden ties on his graying robes. Then the gray vest and white shirt beneath. Drafts from the dark and cool corners of the room close over his skin.

The blond drops his hood and his heavy load to the ground, pulling the cloak from around his shoulders and draping it over the foot of his bed. The white shirt follows, with the red and gold tie. He unzips the parka, setting it carefully inside his trunk like the precious item it is.

Shivering now, with gooseflesh raising the pale hairs on his arms, Kenny redresses in the grungy white shirt, the gray vest, the cloak and the tie. His hair is ruffled from sleep and the worn fleece of his hood, a sandy blond grown shaggy with neglect.

Stomach growling, Kenny abandons the dorm room again, shouldering the heavy weight of his pack. The commons is empty, the fire is out, the scent of the coals and kindling lingers.

–--

Hufflepuff basement boasts warmth, comfort, welcoming, and delivers on all these expectations with wide rooms, round doors, copper bed warmers, and a vast array of exotic plants on as many flat surfaces as can be found. Opulent cushions on yellow and black sofas or chairs embrace them, where they can gaze up to the windows visible high in the walls and see blades of grass sway in the breeze, and flowers growing under the full moon. Everything is sunshine yellow and glinting in the lantern light, with a feel of homemade attention in every patchwork blanket.

Even though it is night when he first sees it all, Tweek is reminded of his mother's garden and the shed she keeps. He takes a long drink of his potion, trembling as adrenaline slithers in his veins.

Crawling through the tunnel and into the low ceiling-ed room was the first moment of comfort Tweek had felt since departing for Hogwarts from his house. Never mind that he knew he would forever have to wait for another Hufflepuff to open the passage to their commons out of fear of being doused in vinegar—Hufflepuff is the least likely house in Hogwarts to be besieged, and unless one of them wants to kill him—which is very possible!--he thinks he might be  _almost_  safe here.

“This is the common room,” Their Prefect, a plump young woman named Nilly Mason announces. Her cheeks pinch into deep dimples at her smile. “We have tea always brewed fresh and brought in by the House Elves and little cakes to snack on. Since we're right next to the kitchen don't be 'fraid to pop your head in for a treat now and then.” She chuckles, thinking fondly of late nights and delectable confections.

Tweek's shoulder spasms, nearly knocking into his ear. Nerves have him casting a wary gaze around the room. There are no hard angles he can see—nothing to hide the monsters that inevitably will crawl out from the mangled depths of the Forbidden Forest at three A.M. to eat his spleen.

“Wow. It's like something out of a Lord of the Rings movie.” Clyde's smile is easy and happy. It's late, and dark, and they've all been awake since dawn that morning, but who cares—it's  _Hogwarts_. Magic has seeped into every wall, every stone and drape. It leaks an astounding aura for miles around, hiding one of the world's most prolific wizarding schools from seven billion muggles.

“Have a great night everyone! You'll find your first week's class schedules on a table by the dorm doors over there--” Nilly points towards two tall, round portals in the far wall, and a small oak table seated between them. A little cactus sits in the middle of the table growing in an orange clay pot. “Get some sleep soon. You don't want to be late on your first day. Oh! And breakfast is at seven!”

Their Prefect turns off, trusting her Hufflepuffs to handle themselves the rest of the night, and grabs her own copy of the schedule before heading down to the girls dorms.

“Oh, brave Merlin,” Tweek whimpers. He immediately shifts to the side so the gathering of Hufflepuffs around him can get to the table first without trampling the ever grasping life out of him. “C-Clyde? I don't know if I can do this, man!”

Clyde shrugs—he's not used to being around someone who is so high strung, and Tweek's worried glances needle him with spikes of nagging concern.

“It's not that bad,” He offers, patting Tweek's shoulder like he did outside the train. “You're just thinking too much.”

“ _Nng_...” A muscle contracts, Tweek whimpers, jerks, wide hazel eyes stare at Clyde uncomprehendingly for a moment. When the brunette's hand falls away Tweek empties his potion again.

Clyde departs his side to grab a schedule; alone in a lingering crowd of strangers Tweek follows quickly, eager to get himself into a bed where he can wrap the blankets around himself and cover his head. He snatches a sheet of parchment, which rips at the edges almost immediately in his fidgety fingers.

Their trunks have already been brought to the basement, but they're far enough from the circle of yellow and black draped beds to suggest freedom of choice. Tweek shoves his towards a bed closest the door, and reverses the pillow and patchwork blankets—that way he can be ever vigilant for intruders coming from the common room.

Clyde chooses the next down the crescent, where he collapses, spreading out as if lying in a field of fresh grass.

Everything smells of earth and green things, exotic perfumes. A rat skids across the floor, a black and white cat loping after it playfully.

A fair haired blonde boy drag his trunks to the bed opposite side of and Clyde, smiling sunnily to himself. Once his trunk is set by the bed he straightens up with a satisfied sigh, turning his gaze from Tweek to Clyde and back.

“Howdy! A-are you fellas firsties too?” Tweek yanks at his blankets, taking his own pale hair captive between his thin fingers. Clyde hangs his legs over the side of the bed.

“H-how did you know that?  _God_ , can you read my mind?”

“No? Just a guess! I'm Butters Stotch, nice ta meetcha!” He hops onto the bed, shuffling the covers and sheets aside to get comfortable.

“I'm Clyde,” Replies the brunette, getting up to disrobe. Tweek doesn't immediately give his own answer, so the two cast a prompting look his way.

“Tweek!” He finally yelps. “Don't stare at me!”

“Oh—uh, okay,” Butters looks away quickly, exaggerating a focus onto one of the squares sewn into the quilt on his bed; a small badger and a raven on a green swathe of 'ground' with a blue background for the 'sky'. “Is this better?”

Tweek nods, waits til he's certain Butter's didn't see it, and then says, “Yes! Thank you!” Sharply. Butter's seems happy enough with this now, and turns his attention to fiddling with the contents of his trunk, changing into his sleep clothes. Tweek's heart slows down a beat or two, clearing purple and red noise from the peripheral of his vision. Bored, Clyde climbs back into his own bed and buries into the plush comfort to close his eyes.

Other kids filter into the room, taking beds as they please, chattering between each other. An owl hoots softly outside, a cat meows in reply, and Tweek misses his own owl, Brother, who was whisked away to join the other birds of the Owlery before he ever got to say goodbye.

The hours crawl on.

Clyde begins snoring at a point where the candles have all been extinguished and the last of the Hufflepuffs in their room have gone silent, flopping around on his bed til one arm dangles off the edge and he's on his stomach. Butters talks quietly to himself, chuckling, and Tweek can't tell if he's awake or asleep.

The potion bottle he carries refills with a stronger draught than the one supplied during the day, leaving Tweek to clutch at his wand, shaking and twitching and watching for the little creatures—those dastardly bearded gnomes that invaded his home every night—to find him here at Hogwarts and terrorize him again.

He doesn't even notice the sun rising to peek cool light into the edges of the windows, through the grass rustling in a morning breeze, until the door he's been staring at all night is illuminated a brilliant copper and brown.

“M-Merlin, maybe I finally e-escaped them...” He whispers to himself, an emotion like relief warming his belly; Tweek is never truly relieved, so it is an unusual sensation whenever it comes by.

In a bed behind him a boy yawns, groans, and shuffles his covers. Tweek swivels around to watch him in case this schoolmate of his is the kind to cast unforgivable curses when still half asleep. Wide hazel eyes, glazed over from another night awake set into a pale face clammy from ignored exhaustion and mental strain only turn away when the boy rolls over again, sticking his butt high into the air under his covers.

It must be close to breakfast time, and even though he isn't hungry, the thought of being late for anything is enough to make Tweek's anxiety roil heavily in his stomach and high in his lungs. He crawls off the bed, wincing at the cold floor, steps around Butter's bed (what a dopey grin the boy has—) and pausing beside Clyde.

“C-Clyde! Holy shit, dude, you have to wake up!” Tweek whisper-shrieks. He swats Clyde's arm once, and then flinches back. “You're _aagh—_ going to be late for breakfast!”

Brown meets hazel for a single jittery moment before Tweek looks away. His whole body is trembling where it stands, nervously swaying with indecisiveness.

“D'ya say b'fast?” Clyde mumbles, slowly sitting up. “'n wanna miss that,' He yawns broadly, which makes Tweek yawn. He clips it short with a squeak.

“Yes! Man, you have to get up—now!” Tweek never changed out of his robes the night before, as he was too anxious about oversleeping to be able to get dressed again in the morning or even to sleep.

“'Kay,” Clyde yawns again, and Tweek scuttles away with a sharp _Eep!_ before he catches this one.

“Buh...?” Butters rolls over, peeking open his own eyes blearily, more asleep than not.

Tweek hurries from the dorm. He'll wait for them at the door to the tunnel out.

\---

Tweek hurries them down the hallway—Butters has taken it upon himself to become a part of their group (his and Clyde's) and Tweek can't think of a reason to stop him aside from not knowing him yet (but he doesn't know Clyde either and that's way too much to think about—).

Thankfully Hufflepuff basement is absurdly close to the kitchens and that means it's easy to get up to the Great Hall without getting too lost.

“Boy, I sure hope there are pancakes this mornin'!” Butters chirps happily. “I do love me some pancakes!”

“I hope there's bacon, too.” Clyde adds on.

Tweek doesn't have a breakfast dish to look forward to, just his potion. He doesn't trust the food at Hogwarts yet, and will wait to eat it until he's sure no one has died.

They get to the massive doors leading into the Great Hall just in time to be nearly bowled over by a golden blond haired boy running in the doors.

“ _WAH!”_ Tweek leaps out of the way. “ _M-Merlin!_ They're already out to get me!”

The other boy doesn't seem to have noticed nearly knocking Tweek, Clyde and Butters onto their asses, and is gone inside. Heart pounding, Tweek abdicates his place at the front and hides behind Butters, who gives him an encouraging smile.

They go inside where it is loud, and bright, and there are so many students crammed into their house tables. A magical spread of food covers every surface of the long wood tables, and the scent wafts enticingly in the air. Clyde licks his lips and weaves his way determinedly to the Hufflepuff table.

Passing Slytherin, Tweek hears a loud voice dominating a small crowd of them, pressed in close to hear what he has to say. Tweek looks over, and it's a fat boy with brown hair and a horribly awful look in his eyes above a small smirk.

“--I think we should be able to use the so called 'Unforgivable Curses'--" He makes quotation hand marks, easily removing some of the seriousness of the topic. "--Whenever we want. I mean, what's a guy supposed to do when he has a real problem with a certain daywalker being on the loose?”

There is laughter and agreement and Tweek runs to the Hufflepuff table as fast as he can.

 

 

 


	6. Warning for Crypticness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenny is informed in a terribly uninformative way, and then he forgets his cauldron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to my reviewers. I truly appreciate the comments and kudos. I apologize for taking so long to update. Hopefully it won't be so long again!
> 
> I'm sorry there's no Tweek in this chapter, but there's more of him being written for ch. 7 :3

“Proper wrist movements are essential to releasing the spell from your wand.” The teacher sniffs, turning his sloping nose into the air.

Kenny snickers to himself, jerking his wrist, wand in hand, in his lap beneath the long slab of black wood that makes up their row's desk. He gets a light chuckle out of the kid sitting next to him. Grinning now, Kenny focuses back on the teacher.

“Would anyone care to demonstrate their technique?”

Kenny bites back a snort of amusement, hiding his mirth behind a one of his hands. Across the room a girl with curly blond hair raises her hand.

By the end of first period, Charms, with Professor Cornelius Broadmoore, a gaunt man with a tangle of long white hair he spelled into purple curls at the end of class—just to make the first years go, “ _Wow!”_ , Kenny is completely in awe of what he is able to do; dying—the curse that plagues him has never felt like _magic_ , but an _inconvenience_ , and that very morning, only hours ago, with a swish and a flick he actually made a feather rise off the wooden counter and bob and float about his head.

And so he, and Stan of course, are now following a tide of other Gryffindors down to the dungeons for their first Potions class, and first class mixed with Slytherin house.

The boys are just turning a corner, rounding a bulbous ceramic of a pot painted gold and black, the lights dimming as the number of windows decrease, and in their path are two out of place students, standing against the oncoming Gryffindors.

Kenny and Stan stop short to prevent a collision, exchanging a look.

“Can uh... we help you?” Stan asks, shooting a look down the corridor towards their next class.

A Slytherin replied, “ _Oui,_ ” and sharp brown eyes narrowed under a mop of dirt colored hair, hopping from Stan to Kenny. If it were possible, it looked as if the boy had developed rings of wrinkles around his eyes at the bright young age of eleven. A deep bracket of lines drew from the corners of his lips, adding severity to his frown. “But not you. _Ze ozer_ one.”

Just behind and to the side of the brunette, a tall, slender Ravenclaw with curling corn colored hair and an unimpressed air to him scans Stan from head to toe, and dismisses him with a jerk of his head.

“Me?” Kenny asks, pointing at himself for emphasis. “What could I help you with? I can't do any cool magic yet.”

The brunette grunts, narrowing his eyes at Stan, stern and impatient. “You are free to go.”

“Uh...”

“If you will so kindly leave us be for a few moments I am sure your friend will be along shortly.” Adds the blond behind him in a stiff voice, just shy of haughty authority. “We shan't keep him hostage all day.”

“...Right,” Stan agrees after a pause. He looks to Kenny, who just shrugs deeply—as if he'd know anything about all this—sighs. “Okay. I'll see you in class Kenny. Don't get lost.” Stan hurries past the two, catching up with the slower moving Gryffindors. He spares them a bewildered backwards glare, but is around the corner and gone a moment later.

The Slytherin raises a hand to his face, touching his lips briefly with two fingers, as if he were bringing something to them, before he scowls and drops his hand in a fist.

“So... what can I do for you?” Kenny asks when the boys don't immediately continue. Sharp brown eyes flash to him, and then to the taller blond who moves up to stand beside him now.

“We wished to discuss briefly with you the circumstances surrounding your admittance to this great school.”

“' _Great_ _school'_ , he says.” The Slytherin scoffs.

“Why... would you two know anything about that?”

“I am Gregory, by the way, coming from Yardale. I excelled quite above my peers at my pre-magic, academia schooling. This is Christophe,” Gregory, ignoring Kenny's question, gestures to his companion. “At specific times you may refer to him as, as he would say, ' _ze Mole',_ ” He affects a mimic of Christophe's accent.

“I do not sound like _zat_.” Christophe growls. “You fucking British asshole.”

Gregory shrugs, continuing before Kenny can voice any questions with a small quirking of his lips.

“You were admitted under unusual circumstances, Mr. McCormick,” Gregory goes on. “Your whole family line consists of Muggles, your financial standing is, let us say—sub-par? Now, of course there are indeed students in your class that have attended Hogwarts, but unlike them—“

“ _S'ree_ minutes,” Christophe growls, looking at the black faced watch strapped to his taned wrist. It was first wrist watch Kenny had seen since passing through Diagon Alley that day.

“Ah, yes, I apologize.” Gregory sniffs, smoothing down the front of his jersey. “I will summarize,”

Kenny waits, not sure at all if he wants a summary or not. What he wants to to ask questions.

“Wait—“ He starts.

“If you will kindly not interrupt,” Gregory admonishes, doing just that. “We haven't much time you see, and our next... _impromptu_ meeting will not be until after supper in two days.” He explains with the kind of certainty of one who knows without a doubt he is right.

“How—“

“Fucker, _'e_ said not to interrupt!” Christophe hisses. “Two minutes.”

“As I was saying,” Gregory carries on smoothly. He gestures for Kenny to follow, and begins leading the way down the hall. Kenny complies numbly, and Christophe ambles behind him, glaring at every painting and suit of armor warily.

Just three students in a rush for class before they're late.

“Even though prior to acceptance you had never cast even accidental magic, as is common for children, you were admitted to Hogwarts. It was through a branch organization that reaches out to impoverished potential students—however you were not told anything useful about this organization or why they helped you besides those facts. I am afraid it is not out of charity that they did so. The Magical community values a lot of things, but junkyard muggleborns who by all right of genetics shouldn't even have magic—well, that is not one of them. They had _other_ reasons for helping you.”

“' _urry ze_ fuck up!” Christophe snaps in a strained whisper, glancing around the empty hallway. “ _Zey_ could be listening _._ ”

“Quite. In short order you will be contacted about the conditions of your enrollment. It will not be easy, but you would be better off just doing as told for now. We will discuss this further in two day's time.” They come to a fork in the hall, a corridor leading to a stairway down to the dungeons and another leading to stairs going up. “Christophe will escort you to your next class, which you have together.”

Gregory breaks away at the fork. “You will understand in time, Kenneth. Until then.” He makes for the stairs going up at a brisk pace, leaving Christophe and a reeling Kenny alone.

“Dude,” Kenny starts, following Christophe down when the brunette charges ahead. “What the fuck—“

“Don't ask stupid questions. Just do as your told.” The brunette bites. “If you know what is good for you.”

“Okay, but that is so cliché, can't you—“

Christophe opens the door to the Potions classroom and nearly closes it on Kenny, who has to brace it from slamming back into him. _“Ow!”_ He lets the door shut behind him. They are the last two inside, and the professor, standing tall and dark at the front of the room, already beginning lecture, pauses to acknowledge her late student.

“I see you have decided to brighten the dungeons with your presence, Mister...?”

Kenny glances aside and sees that somehow Christophe found a place at a Slytherin table without him or the teacher noticing, and abandoned Kenny, whom always thought himself quite sneaky and invisible, to be singled out.

“McCormick, ma'am,” He answers, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry I'm late. I got a little lost.”

“If you'd please,” The professor continues in a faux friendly tone, after a cold moment observing him and leaving him in the spotlight of a class of snickering Slytherins and bored Gryffindors, “I would appreciate being allowed to continue on with my class sans interruption. Yes?” Her cadence drops to a voice like black oil. “Sit down.”

“Yes ma'am,” Kenny hunches his shoulders, stepping quickly to a row in the back and taking the only free seat there between a large boy with hair that wants to be red but is just too brown to be attractive and another boy with a blue hat sitting in front of him on the table beside his cauldron and open textbook. He spares Kenny a terribly bored expression and returns to staring vacantly towards the front.

He can't find Stan immediately, but Kenny does catch Christophe's eye across the room, and the brunette gives him a look of utter disgust. Slumping, Kenny reads the chalkboard board, a few simple lines:

_Professor Pegada Silvanus_

_First Year Potions Class_

_Antidote to Common Poisons_

_Magical Drafts and Potions, page 26_

Written in a neat, tight scrawl. It was a little difficult to decipher the cursive from the back of the room, especially so as his public school hadn't thought it necessary to teach much script anyways. But it was easy enough to catch on after peeking at his blank faced neighbor's book.

“I will remind you all,' Pegada's voice silks over the students. “That use of your wands shall not be necessary during my lessons. The magic comes in from the ingredients, not from shaking your sticks around. Turn on your burners.”

Kenny went to obey, mind reeling again over the utterly confusing conversation he'd had with Gregory and Christophe; in short order he realizes he did not bring his cauldron with him to class.

–

“Mr. McCormick,” A friendly voice stops Kenny, once again, on his way somewhere. This time on his way for a break in the sunny courtyard before Defense Against the Dark Arts. Two men and a woman stand a few paces away, having appeared from who knows where—perhaps a classroom or the headmaster's office. He doesn't know, but Kenny can tell fake smiles from real ones easily enough.

“Yes?”

“We would like to have a word with you.”

 


	7. I Work All Day and I Miss The Arts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> How are you all doing?  
> Okay, so some new notes. I've re-added Craig/Tweek to the pairings list, because they look at each other. What else can I say? Also the special OMC invented himself. But .... don't let that deter you. It's all become a part of my evil plan.
> 
> I tried really hard to get the calculations of currency and social evolution right and reasonable. I'm fucking with shit a little because I can? And math kills me. And this is a completely undisclosed amount of time after Harry Potter lived, so who knows what has happened since?
> 
> FOR THE SAKE OF THE STORY... we are going to assume that now-a-days every major school sends letters to witches and wizards around the world, which is a big factor in why these American kids are going to a school in Scotland.
> 
> Don't ever work for the wage Kenny is working at. He doesn't know better.

The sunlight outside looks so inviting. So warm. Tempting him with swaying leaves all emerald and lime, letting off pleasant perfumes. It's so welcoming after all the snow in South Park. Instead he puts on his most cooperative face and stands still to listen.

He's first approached by the woman, tall and quite lovely with curling brown hair and red lipstick; though for all her loveliness the stern look in her eyes behind thin silver glasses frames is off-putting. In her hands is a thick leather-bound folder, his name emblazoned in gold filigree on the front. She adjusts her grip on it and opens to a page with a small, moving picture of himself.

Kenny is caught, fascinated by a smaller version of himself in his orange parka, moving around the frame—just shifting his weight, looking around now and then. He remembers the photo being taken, with Karen was just off screen, hardly able to hold still with her excitement.

“Okay, Mr. McCormick,” The woman begins. “I have been reviewing your file; family income, assets and demographics—” A small cluster of Hufflepuffs turn down the corridor, heading towards them. Two girls giggling loudly, two boys—one beaming at the attention and the other practically hidden under the others cloak—she waits for them to pass into the courtyard, clears her throat.

“Perhaps we should continue this elsewhere.”

\--

In a more private location, a small, unused office perhaps, judging by the thick layer of dust on the desk, the dried up inkwells and the yellowed parchment curled up and torn on the desks—

“Alright,” The woman starts again, adjusting her thin framed spectacles before brushing some of her hair out of her face. Her male companions stand a few feet behind Kenny, as if guarding the door with their looming, smiling forms.

“Your family enjoys a level of poverty well below what we usually accept,” She says. Her tone implies neither care nor sympathy. Kenny frowns—he wouldn’t say his family ' _enjoys'_  their level of poverty. “However, that has been circumvented personally by the headmaster of this school. He contacted our branch of the Ministry on your behalf.”

“Me? But why?” Kenny asks, feeling a bit dumbstruck. “I’ve never even met the headmaster.” She adjusts her glasses again, coughing lightly into her fist. It must be the dust floating in the air.

“I'm sure it is simply because you are the first confirmed wizard in your bloodline. Our community is very inclusive of new blood.” She coughs again, and Kenny thinks he hears one of the wizards behind him snicker. “Now, back to the matter at hand. You may have been brought here on the headmaster’s request, but your education was not paid for. You’ve thus been enrolled into our Young Witches and Wizard’s Work Study Program, YWWWSP; it’s relatively new. This way you will come out of schooling with less debt—“ Kenny flinches—he knows all about debt already. “--And a leg up for your future.”

She looks at him expectantly, an indulgent smile curling her red painted lips. He realizes quickly she's awaiting some kind of grateful reaction from him.

“Uh… great. That’s great. Really—really...” Kenny runs out of platitudes quickly. “So, uh, what will I be doing?” He asks. The wizards by the door seem to grin wider when he glances back at them. “Nothing dangerous… right?”

The woman chuckles. “No, of course not Mr. McCormick. For now you will be helping the house elves in the kitchens to prepare dinner and then clean up after. We’ll make arrangements for different tasks throughout your education, but for the first semester at least that's where you'll be unless another need arises.” She flips through his file and stops at a page that Kenny can’t see. She studies it for a moment.

“Unfortunately it will mean you’ll be missing your last period of the day until further notice.” She glances down at what he guesses is his schedule. “Defense Against the Dark Arts, for now.” She shrugs primly. “Hardly a necessary subject these days, as you surely know.”

He does not know. He was really looking forward to that class. _Really_ looking forward to it. 

“I will inform the professor for you,” She continues over any comments Kenny might have. “One of the staff will escort you to the kitchen today before you would have that class, and show you where the kitchens are. There the elves will take over. Any questions?”

“How much am I gunna be paid?”

She scans the page again.

“You will be paid twelve galleons a week. Rather generous for a work study program. Of course, you wont actually be given this money, it will be deposited directly into an account my department has created for you to go towards your debt. Whatever you do not pay off during your time here will be attached to your name after graduation. Then we will begin adding interest… Nothing too heavy.”

“R-right…” Kenny starts to wonder, again, if he should be here. Why wasn’t he attending some shitty wizard school in America? Why did they—the Ministry of Magic and Headmaster Wenlock—decide he had to go to a special private school in Scotland? What even was tuition to attend Hogwarts? 

He's too scared to ask.

And for a moment he really feels bad for Liane Cartman; how Eric talked her into sending him here Kenny will never want to know.

“Well. That concludes that. Continue your day as normal, Mr. McCormick, and someone will be along to collect you later.”

–

“U-up! Up! Please get up! Oh god, _why won’t it get up_?” A high-pitched voice shrieks. Laughter replies. Snickers and snorts and chortles at the boy’s unfortunate choice of wording.

“That’s what _she_ _said_ ,” Someone adds snidely, predictably, giggling.

“ _What_?” Tweek snaps back, eyes wide with worry. “What did _who_ say? The teacher? Oh, Merlin, I can’t do this! Why won’t my broom listen to me? Up!” he cries at the school issued broom lying dead and stick-like on the ground by his feet. “ _Up!”_ he insists desperately.

To his right, Clyde holds his broom steady where it hovers against his the palm of his hand eagerly, like a dog under hand. He runs his fingers over the invisible saddle and down the wood. He can’t help laughing at Tweek—it’s almost cute how badly he’s freaking out.

“Tweek, Tweek, it’s okay. Calm down.” He says between chuffs and snorts. The teacher is occupied with another student, and Clyde can’t seem to ignore Tweek. “Just take a deep breath and tell the broom to “ _Up_!”, like a boss!”

Tweek makes a strangled noise, swallowing heavily. He thinks he might cry, but he won’t. The ruddy color of his cheeks is bad enough. “O-okay, okay,” He sucks in deep breaths, three, two, one. Eyes wide and forcefully unblinking, he stares down at the broom.

“UP!” He yells at it, as angry and authoritative as he can. What he thinks those voices sound like, at least. The boom rolls over, as if unimpressed. Breathing hard, Tweek bends over quickly and picks up the thing, holding it out to the side of him as if it has come o him like everyone elses' were. He stares straight again, pretending he's not a joke to classmates.

“Settle down everyone!” Their instructor, Professor Callaway barks. A gruff man appearing in his late thirties, already graying at the sideburns. He’s holding a sleek black and white broom as if it were a weapon. “Now that we’ve all got our brooms in hand we will mount them. You will locate the saddle, settle in, kick off at one, two, three, hover for one minute and then touch down. Are we clear?”

“ _M-Merlin help me,_ ” Tweek grinds into his clenched teeth. Clyde grins wide, excited. A Ravenclaw grins deviously at Tweek, his dark eyes focused on the trembling blond.

“Yes professor!” Someone calls, eliciting a chorus.

“Good. Mount!” A rush of compliance and eagerness waves through the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Each climb astride their brooms, holding tight, wiggling into the invisible seats, getting used to the placement. “Kick off!”

Clyde bends his knees sharply and pushes against the ground, hopping up into the air. Immediately the broom beneath him catches his weight, sitting on the air as if it were balancing top to bristle on the center a see-saw, as the weight of him wants to tip it forward and back every time he moves. But it feels awesome to be staring at the ground a couple feet below. Better than the first time he rode a bicycle.

“Good everyone—“ The professor begins, strolling down the lines of students. He stops at Tweek, however, who is hopping up and down, eyes bright with tears and cheeks bright red when he simply—the broom will not catch under him—

“Mister… Tweak, is it? What is happening here?” Callaway asks, raising an eyebrow. “I told you to mount and hover.”

“I-I’m _trying!_ ” Tweek cries, attracting even more attention. He’s the only one on the ground still; jumping up and down like a trapped rabbit. “ _It wont—stay—off—the—ground_!” He grinds out. Callaway rolls his eyes, watching Tweek for a moment before stepping in.

“Alright, alright, off, boy. Let me see the broom.” Tween lands from a jump, steps away from the broom quickly, letting it drop uselessly to the ground. The professor picks it up and runs his fingers over the bristles. He raises the other eyebrow at Tweek, and sighs thoughtfully. “Keep trying, Mister Tweak. Be more confidant—you broom will respond better to it.”

Tweek’s shaking when he takes the broom again. He’s not even confident enough for a broom. He pulls out his flask, takes a long drink, and whimpers.  _He would probably fall off the broom and die anyways._

Tweek remains on the ground while the professor leads the rest of his class in a simple circle several yards away. They’re only five feet or so off the ground, but they’re flying; and Tweek longs, even as scared of flight as he is, and broom still refuses to come up to his hand, no matter how he begs it to.

\--

Lunch at the Gryffindor table is boring, but loud. Craig does not appreciate loud noises, but he doesn’t particularly hate them either. It’s just another annoyance of having to deal with people—and especially kids finally allowed to try and make their wands into fireworks.

A _lumos_ flashes brightly to his left, momentarily whiting out the silver of his plate and the red of his meatloaf, and then to the other side a goblet floats upside down, still dripping orange from whatever had been inside it moments before.

Unimpressed, Craig pushes away his now orange drenched rolls and picks up his plate to find a quieter place to eat.

He scans the table—all Gryffindors—and the next table, all Slytherins—nobody is mingling with the other tables particularly, save for a little leaning over the aisle and chatting. Nothing of interest. So far it didn’t seem like Hogwarts would be much more exciting than his last school—which is good. A quiet education would be best.

A Slytherin boy surrounded by plates piled high with food has a small crowd sitting around him.

“--So I told ‘im, ‘Po’ boys don’t go to Hogwarts!’” He laughs, wet and gross from a mouth stuffed with food. “He’s on some lame government assistance now. So typical. Every school’s gotta have a pity case, right?” His words draw a few chuckles, a nod here and there, but Craig can’t see that any of them particularly care about some poor kid or whoever. They’re waiting for something else.

“But then I overheard this one guy talking ‘bout ‘im, ‘bout Kenny…” He goes on, a sly grin breaking out across his wide face. Craig doesn't know who Kenny is, and he really doesn't care, either. And the fat kid seems to have finally noticed the Gryffindor eavesdropping and glares. “What do you want, asshole? Go back to your table for goody goodies!” Craig rolls his eyes, flips him his middle finger and wanders off. Nothing to do with him.

–-

“Let’s try this again, Mister Tweak. Put your potion down and step to the left of your broom.” Professor Callaway pinches the bridge of his nose. “We haven’t much time left before class ends.” The rest of the class, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw alike fly at a slow pace back and forth over the field. A few wavering, a few off-balancing high fives followed by laughter. And then there was Tweek, still earthbound and miserable. He sets the flask onto the ground, hunching in the shoulders.

“Alright. Let’s try something else. Take a deep breath, raising your arms over your head,” Tweek mirrors the Professor, the billowing sleeves of his robe falling down his skinny arms. “And exhale your arms back to your sides,” Tweek obeys.

They repeat this twice more. By the end, Tweek is slightly more relaxed, and a lot more lightheaded.

“Try again.”

Tweek taps the ground with his toes, stares heatedly down at he broom, and says, “ _Up!”_ With all the force he can muster.

The broom shakes, trembles, rolls over…

…and does nothing else.

Tweek represses a frustrated sob.

“C-can I— _nng_ \-- try a different broom? _Please!_ This one definitely does not like me!”

Callaway ‘ _Hmm_ ’s thoughtfully. “I’ve handed out all the brooms available for the class today, unfortunately. But tomorrow I will bring you a different broom, Mister Tweak. One I hope will react to... your particular energy better. For now, I suppose you are dismissed. Go on to your next class.”

It almost feels like relief, but the disappointment is heavier. “Okay! Okay…” Tweek snatches up his potion, races to the side of the wall where all their bags were resting and takes his up. He slinks into the castle, looking to find a boy’s room. Just a few minutes to compose himself. His parents will be so upset with him—or... not; he wishes they would be, but they probably won’t care if he is good at flying, if he is excellent at charms or transfiguration—only potions matter. He has to work at the family apothecary after school anyways. It's all on him.

_So much pressure._

Tweek ducks into the first boys restroom he finds, going over to one of the sinks. The face that greets him is gross. Red and wet from tears, sweat and snot. He didn’t even realize he’d started crying. Pale blond hair is stuck to his face, clumped together and sticking up ridiculously. He’s a mess. Just looking at himself makes Tweek want to cry more.

Brown eyes cast around, looking for obvious signs of life—listening, too.

None are apparent over the beating of his heart and the throbbing behind his temples.

“Merlin, Tweek! Get it—get it _together, man!_ A— _agh_ , it's just, just too much!” He turns on water, cold, from the groaning pipes and splashes it into his face. Daggers and needles of frigid water lance his skin. It feels horrible and awakening at the same time.

He stays like that, dripping cold water into the sink and staring at his black rimmed eyes in the mirror until the sound of a toilet flushing shocks him from his reverie.

“ _Shit_!”

Tweek twists off the water quickly, afraid his heart will beat right out of his chest.

One of the stalls opens, letting out a tall boy wearing a blue hat topped with a yellow poof. His bored expression reveals none of his reaction to Tweek’s manic episode in the same room as him. He simply steps up to the sinks, turns on the water, and soaps up his hands. He only spares the blond a single glance, noting how the shorter boy stares at him, eyes wide and fearful.

“What?” Craig asks, when the weight of Tweek’s gaze gets to be too much.

“Y-you’re not supposed to be in here!” The shorter boy gasps, voice high and echoing around the marble walls.

“It’s the boy’s bathroom.” Craig points out, looking around, just to make sure he went into the right one. 

Tweek makes an unidentifiable string of noises, shaking. “Right—um, right. I-I should go now!” Craig rolls his eyes skyward—why should he care?

“’Kay.”

Tweek backs up towards the door, feeling along the rims of the sinks to find his way, not taking his eyes off of Craig for an instant—just in case it wasn't the boy he'd met on the train and not a ghost, or a werewolf, or even a Basilisk in disguise—

But Craig just washes his hands, and waits for Tweek to leave so he can go as well.

–

Kenny stands outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, watching his fellow Gryffindors file in excitedly and knowing he can’t join them. He doesn’t know where to wait for whoever is picking him up for his work study shift, but he figured that waiting here was better than somewhere else.

The doors close, and no one has come for him yet, and Kenny gets the feeling he might’ve been duped, or heard wrong and maybe he’s just making himself late for class by standing outside it. Like an idiot.

“C'mon...” he twitches on his feet, feeling too exposed without his hood.

\--

“Hello—Kenny, right?”

The blond startles, he hadn’t seen the man—guy—approach, pulling a pocket watch from his robe pocket. He’s handsome, Kenny thinks, fifteen or sixteen probably, with an attractive face smooth of any acne and a head of mixed-length black dreads. His green eyes are striking against his dark complexion. Kenny finds himself a little stricken.

“Yeah, that’s me.” He mumbles eventually, straightening up away from the wall.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Gidd. I’m in the same program as you, so I can show you the ropes a bit.” Gidd extends his hand for Kenny to shake. He’s got a cultured appearance to him that the blond cannot relate to, coming from Hicksville USA.

The colors of their hands contrast sharply when Kenny connects to shake, and he thinks he’d never considered Token’s skin before now and he should have; he wonders if it’d be such a pretty mix too.

Gidd seems to be waiting for him to let go, so Kenny does quickly, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I have to help the, uh, elves? In the kitchen right? You’ll show me where it is?”

“Yes. No problem. Follow me; the kitchens are right by Hufflepuff house. Do you have any questions while we walk?” Gidd turns to lead them down a winding hall lined with moving portraits. Most of them seem to be ignoring the boys, though a lion roars at Kenny when they make eye contact, and a suit of armor hiding a spindly legged man clangs loudly.

The shimmering, translucent form of Nearly Headless Nick ascends from the floor below to the floor above without stopping to say “ _Hello_ ”.

Kenny thinks he might have lots of questions.


	8. Storage Closests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY-HO
> 
> Just gunna keep the notes short today. I've been working on this when inspiration hits. Insert excuses here: ______________. Okay?
> 
> Enjoy!!!
> 
> __________________________________________________________________________________________

 So the elves… are… a thing that exists.

For all the crazy nightmares, aliens, wild monsters, and bizarre mutations Kenny has seen in his short life, the elves are entirely new. Probably because they’re not— _weird_ to the wizards and witches around him. They’re _normal_. Unlike the creatures of Lovecraftian horror and demented design that popped up in South Park nigh weekly, nobody is in danger, delusional, or pretending they cannot see them. House elves—or castle elves in this instance—are just another creature that lives and works alongside the magical community.

They’re awfully friendly, and polite, greeting Kenny as if he’s someone important. “ _Mister McCormick!”_ They call him, unironically. He shakes hands with at least fifteen individuals, each with names and smiles and, oddly, the exact same outfit. Gidd pauses to chat with one of the elves—Piddy, Kenny thinks he hears, or maybe Peggy—about Kenny.

“So…”

Looking around, Kenny honestly can’t really say he knows why they need his help. There’s food literally flying around the room. Bottles of spices, pots, pans, sauce jars, dried herbs, whole body chickens, pumpkins and apples and an uncountable amount of other things soar high overhead. Some Kenny watch vanish before his eyes just to reappear on a shelf or beside a sink or at a stove top. The elves not pausing for introductions seem already hard at work cooking.

“Alright Kenny,” Gidd returns to Kenny with the elf he was speaking to, their short body only coming up to his hip. A wide smile tugs at the elf’s thin lips. “This is Paddy. She’s in charge of the kitchen today, and she’ll direct you around to where you’ll be needed. You’ll be here until dinner, and then come back after to help with clean up.”

“Okay,” Kenny acknowledges quietly, eyes catching on all the things moving around him.

“See you next time then.” Gidd flashes him a dazzling smile; it knocks Kenny for a little bit of a loop. He can only wave after him like a totally uncool eleven year-old.

 ---

It’s a good thing they gave him work robes and an apron, Kenny decides about forty minutes or so after being left in the kitchen to help; as he is, quite possibly, covered in food and sauces and miscellaneous spills from head-to-toe. His dirty blond hair is actually dirty now. It might be teriyaki sauce. Or soy sauce. Or maybe both. He smells like a dog treat, or a trash bag.

Every finger is sticky and there’s food particles under his nails.

But it is actually kind of fun. The elves do most everything by magic, and it might be that they are simply humoring him and the program he’s in by even having him there, but food-laden dishes that were flying on their own moments before now are required to be carried in his arms. Vegetables that chopped themselves by an enchanted knife are done by his hand—hardly efficient, possibly ridiculous. Definitely dangerous.

If they’d asked him to prepare Poptarts for all the students that would’ve been more up his alley; not the amazing meals he’s been having lately, yet here he is. 

One of the elves even stops him in his task of stirring—something—to tip him. Tip him _actual money._

Kenny learns that, after a war and revolution led long ago by a brave and kind hero, the laws concerning many magical creatures were, over time, revised. Elves began earning wages and slowly started transitioning into employees rather than servants, and Hogwarts was one of the first large traditional establishments to embrace the change.

“Most of us care little for knuts or sickles, sir,” The elf had explained, tossing a handful of salt into the pot Kenny stirs slowly. “We’re happy enough to be busy. So, here,” He reached into his grubby apron, pulling out and handing him ten silver sickles. Kenny isn’t sure what the value is, really, if he’d just been handed pennies or one dollar coins, or something else entirely but accepted it nonetheless.

“Thank you!” Kenny shoves the sickles into his pants pocket with a grin, wiping his hand on his apron after. As exhausting as the work is, it’s also rewarding, and the elves are hilariously good company.

Kenny spends another hour running around doing odd tasks and getting hungry before Paddy stops him at the potatoes and everything else station.

“Mister McCormick, sir, Paddy believes it’s time to get changed for supper! Libby will continue.” Kenny sets the potato he was peeling. Another elf—Libby, Kenny assumes—waves sheepishly at him from behind Paddy.

“Okay,” he sets his peeler down. “Do I come right back after dinner?”

“Yes, sir.” Paddy agrees. “There’s lots to do after supper.”

“Alright."

–--

Kenny collapses onto the bed next to Stan’s hours later. He’s bone-tired, sore, and hungry again. For all the festivity cooking dinner is, cleaning up after is a lot more solemn, and a lot faster paced. More is done by magic and less by hand, leaving Kenny to scrub uselessly at dishes that clean themselves and to wipe down a table that just finished being wiped by a floating rag.

The boy was given the distinct impression that the elves weren’t really enthusiastic about his help anymore after dinner, but were keeping him in to satisfy the amount of hours required by the work study program in a day.

“Hey Kenny,” Stan acknowledges.

“Yo,” Kenny replies, burrowing into his pillow. Rat climbs up with him, squeaking impatiently. Kenny raises his face and a finger chapped from repeated scaldings and soap for the rodent to nibble on. “Hey Rat. Nice ta see ya too. Brought ya some dinner: cheese from the kitchen.”

Rat un-teeths the blond's fingers and appreciatively chews on a small wedge of some fancy orange cheese that Kenny pulls from a crumpled napkin shoved into the hem of his trousers instead.

“Where were you all night?” Stan asks, finally pulling himself from whatever had been distracting him; homework, most likely.

“Workin'.” Kenny replies quietly; he doesn't know if Stan remembers his situation, or if he knows, or if Kenny remembered to tell him or not; the blond just wants to sleep.

“Lame.”

“Yeah.”

There a lull while Kenny watches Rat eat. He wonders when he and Stan grew apart.

“Kyle wants us all to hang out at the library soon. I dunno when though. He's so busy already.”

Kenny rubs his forehead against his pillow. Such a soft pillow. So easy to fall asleep on.

“'Kay,” The blond mumbles through a yawn.

“Just thought you'd wanna know.”

\---

Kenny dreams of being impaled on a hundred kitchen knives while standing in a pot of boiling water and potato skins. The flames from the burner spike up like daggers and latch onto his clothes and hair while the elves watch on and shush his screams.

He wakes up before dawn, sweat soaked and anxious. Stan is asleep, as is Rat, on the pillow beside his ear. A timer ticks by in his head; how long has it been since he last died?

\---

Exactly two days, and some hours, since the odd run-in in the hallways with Gregory and The Mole; Gidd is there to escort him from the job at the end of the night, and Kenny, covered in dish water and half-dried soap finds them all hanging around outside the kitchen door. Mole is standing off to the side, in the darkest corner he could find. Gregory inspects his nails, his expression reads as pensive and thoughtful, but Mole is actively glaring.

Kenny thinks he glares at everyone and everything, probably, and dismisses it.

“I'll leave you here, Kenny. You can get back on your own okay, yeah?” Gidd says after a moment of hesitantly waiting for Kenny, or perhaps the intimidating other two, to do something, not nothing happening.

He gives the two a short wave, which Kenny returns. Gregory and Christophe don’t acknowledge either of them, and when Gidd turns to leave they still don't move at all until Gidd has turned a corner down at the end of the corridor. They slip away from the walls as one, approaching Kenny with quiet steps.

“Kenneth,” Gregory nods. “It is good to see you well. If you’d kindly come with us, we have much to discuss.” Mole stands just behind Gregory’s shoulder, peering around suspiciously, glancing between shadows.

“Sure,” Kenny agrees easily. It would be a pain to say no and have them push the issue. He knows how easily that can end very badly.

Gregory turns and takes lead down the same hall Gidd went down, but he turns in the opposite direction when the path splits. Mole shifts till he’s walking behind Kenny, and the coordination of their maneuver’s talk of too much practice in –what, sting operations maybe? Espionage? Something not so –eleven year old. But then—Kenny is used to that as well.

The hallways turn and twist and finally Gregory opens a door. Kenny wonders how these two—definitely first years as well—know how to navigate the castle so easily. Like Pro… somethings. They should at least run into a teacher by now to herd them into their dorms since it’s so late.

Mole closes the door behind him and pulls out his wand. He points it at the door and mutters an Imperturbable Charm, and another that causeslocks to click into place. Kenny backs up into a box nervously.

“So.. what’s so secret that you had to pull me here?”

Gregory considers him for a moment, and then sighs, dragging his fingers over his nails. “We know about you, Kenneth. We know about your— _gift._ ”

Kenny blinks, startled, and feels the blood drain rapidly into his feet. “W-what the fuck? You know—how? Nobody knows! I mean—everybody knows, but nobody remembers! How can you know?”

Mole hisses at him, “Quieter, _con_.”

“We don’t really _remember_ , per se. But we _know_.” Gregory goes on. “The Headmaster has seen to it personally that we have a method of reminding ourselves of your gift as needed.”

Kenny slumps to the ground, sitting on his feet. He stares up at Gregory and then glances at Christophe, eyes wide.

“But—why?”

“That is where this gets complicated.”

The door opens. Christophe’s spell reversing easily, the locks unlatching with a ringing click. Gregory pulls out his wand, stepping partially in front of Kenny, and Christophe jumps back, aiming his own wand at the door. Kenny cannot imagine this going according to plan at all.

With a creak the portal swings open and a smiling, serene faced Headmaster steps inside. He shuts the door behind himself, while Gregory and Christophe lower their wands.

Kenny’s not sure he has any idea what’s happening what-so-ever.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Wenlock greets cheerfully, quietly. “You have cornered our young McCormick, excellent.” Kenny doesn’t think he needed cornering—he came mostly willingly.

“Well. I can tell we have a lot to discuss before the night gets too late, so why don’t we begin?” He pulls out his wand, long and white, ancient in appearance, mottled wood, and swishes it sharply. From nowhere four chairs appear. Gregory waits for the headmaster and then takes a seat. Kenny drags himself up into the nearest chair slowly. Christophe remains standing, almost as if he were guarding them.

Wenlock sighs indulgently, aiming his wand over his shoulder; a series of clicks and a glow of white snag the locks of the door and spells the portal to keep unwanted visitors away.

“I’m sure you have many questions, Mister McCormick, would you like to begin?”

Kenny glances between them all. “They know—about— _you_ know about my—dying?” He stutters, swallowing awkwardly; he’d stopped trying to convince people of his deaths when he was nine, and suddenly there are three wizards who know about it, even if two claim they don’t remember.

“Oh yes,” Wenlock agrees lightly. “I know. And I have seen to it that these two young men are aware of it as well. Though they aren’t the only ones. I have also informed most of the staff. It’s my business to know everything about my pupils, and if I have a student who will be vanishing rather frequently with no one knowing why he re-appears late or having missed lessons, then it would quickly become troublesome.

It’s achieved by use of some magical artifacts and spells I've adapted for this use.”

Kenny reels, feeling like he may drop out of the chair holding him up. He’d given up on the possibility of ever being remembered for that one thing.

“You’re probably wondering why you have yet to perish in the halls of Hogwarts yet, am I correct? There’s potential dangers to you everywhere, isn’t that true?”

Kenny nods frantically. He has been terrified of being killed and waking up in his old bedroom and being expelled from Hogwarts forever.

“I have had these two boys following you around, I have had the house elves in the kitchen keep their eyes open for dangers there. We are trying to prevent what might not be preventable,” The looking Wenlock's eyes is as close to true pity and remorse as Kenny has ever seen in his life .

“When I die I wake up in my bedroom,” The blond bursts out. “Even when I died outside of South Park before. If I die I won’t be—“

The headmaster raises a hand and Kenny shuts up. “I have set up an arrangement for that instance as well, Mister McCormick. There is a device of one of my great predecessors now in your closet at home, along with instructions, and should you wake up in your bed there you may use it to return to Hogsmede, where you will then be escorted back to Hogwarts by a teacher.”

Complicated. Kenny bites his lip.

“Thanks,” He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Very good. On to our next bit of business,”

Christophe snorts and Gregory hushes him. “We are not your typical students, as you may have noticed,” The curly haired blond begins with that regal tone of voice. “Both Christophe and myself belong to very old and very secret families with even more secret businesses. And… without going into that entirely, let me just say that we were tasked from a very young age to guard a certain someone at a certain time for a certain number of years and for a certain purpose.”

Kenny blinks owlishly.

“You don’t mean me, do you?”

Christophe huffs. “No, _ze_ _ozer_  ass’ole who dies every week.  _Oui,_ you!”

Kenny wants to object that it is far from every week, thank you very much, but he doesn't.

“But why would you need to guard me if I just come back to life any time I’m killed?”

Christophe starts to speak again, but the headmaster stops him with a a look. “That’s enough for now, I would think,” He pauses. “Yes, I believe that is sufficient for tonight.”

Kenny starts to protest—but he, too, is stopped.

“I believe it is late enough. I must ask you to return to your dorms now.”

\--

As if jinxed by their conversation the night before, Kenny falls off his broom when Stan bumps into him, too enthusiastic for his own good, and the blond breaks his head open on the only rock big enough to kill on the field below.

\--

Kenny wakes up in his bed the next morning, flashes of Hell and Damien and Satan with his new boyfriend swimming like dreams in his mind. A sharp pain lingers in the back of head, where he struck the ground the day before.

Slowly Kenny climbs out of his musty, dusty bed that hasn’t been aired since he left a week ago, covered head to toe in his orange parka, and goes to his closet. He’s tired from being dead. It’s not as restful as it should be anymore. He pushes open his closet door, looking for whatever device he needed to use to get back to Hogwarts. Blue eyes skim over the remaining contents inside—his Mysterion costume, the wig he wore as Princess Kenny (and many times since)—the dress, his quiver with suction cup arrows.

Forgetting his purpose for a moment, Kenny fingers the soft fabric of his dress. It would be pointless to take it with him.

And his Mysterion costume…

Kenny stands at the door for several minutes, feeling time click by. And then, shaking his head, he grabs a plastic bag that had some old candy in it, dumps it out, and shoves both costumes and wig into it in crumpled balls. He feels like—perhaps—they could come in use again.

And it must be true, because There, behind his dress, is something that was definitely not his. On a gold colored cord is a teal jewel, a bright white light swirling inside. Kenny thinks about checking in on his sister really quick—but she’s probably at school.

Grasping the cord he slips it over his head.

The world goes black, and Kenny feels like he’s falling, out of control, and there's a sharp pain under his belly button, as if he were being dragged downward by a hook under the skin.

It only last a few minutes at most, and the vertigo settles to dump Kenny on his ass just outside the Hogsmede train station. It’s busy with the morning rush, bustling with activity. Wizards and witches in long cloaks and dark colors going here and there, loud cries of various creatures, the shrill of the train whistles and the calls of the station masters and conductors—and then there’s him—head and face and whole body covered in obnoxiously bright orange and a giant teal bauble. One of his wigs' braids is dangling out of the plastic bag.

Kenny stands there awkwardly. He knows he’s drawing looks, like a delinquent out of class, but the headmaster didn’t tell him what to do after arriving in Hogsmede except that he would be picked up there. He’s not sure he's even waiting in the right place.

Kenny watches the sky while he waits. There are so many owls flying all over the place, some holding parcels, some with letters, swooping and hooting in the sunny sky. If he only could afford an owl—then he could send Karen all sorts of things.

\---

It’s less than an hour later that, with a crack, a tall figure appears besides Kenny, startling the blond into jumping up defensively.

“McCormick,” The professor greets coolly. Kenny winces—it’s his Potions Professor, and she does not appear pleased to see him. “I apologize for the wait, I was finishing up a lesson. That you were supposed to be in.” She adds pointedly. “Let us go, you’re already late for your next class.”

She holds out her arm, and when he doesn’t move, she takes his hand and places it on her arm. “Grasp firmly.” She instructs.

Kenny squeezes down on her arm, and seconds later the vertigo is back, dragging him into the void. It only lasts a moment, and when he stops again, nausea overwhelms him. He lets go on her arm, slumping over to pull the front of his parks down to let him vomit onto the cobbled path.

Dizzy is the least of what he feels—maybe drunk, or high would be better. She sneers at him, looking away till somehow Kenny gets back on his feet.

“What was that?” He asks, spitting thick, bitter saliva from his mouth.

“Apparating, McCormick. It is normal for someone to expel their stomach in such a way after the first time. Especially as young as you are.” He spits again, wiping his mouth, almost unable to believe that she’s comforting him. He finally looks up, and sees the front gates of Hogwarts looming massive and dark above them.

Without another word she leads him up the remainder of the path and to those imposing gates, which open for them immediately.

Once inside, she draws a pocket watch out of her cloak and glances at it. “You best hurry along to Gryffindor tower and change, McCormick, or you will miss Charms altogether.” She turns, only to glare over her shoulder. “Do attempt to stay alive until the weekend.”

\---

Now that he knows that he has—stalkers, guardians, whatever—Kenny starts seeing Gregory and Christophe everywhere. They’re there at breakfast, lunch and dinner, sandwiching him from their respective tables. The Mole lingers in the hallways. Gregory spends extra time in the bathroom primping when Kenny is there.

He even sees Christophe holding a shovel and leaning against the stone wall of the castle during Kenny’s flying lessons. It’s almost as if the two aren’t even taking their own classes, except for the ones they share with him, simply existing to shadow Kenny for some unknown reason.

It’s maddening—

After all, it’s not as if either make any attempt to stop him from dying now, if they actually were before; Christophe watches him poison himself in Potions class and die with his tongue and lower jaw melted away. Gregory watches a magical, giant bee sting him in the stomach, impaling him in a spectacular explosion of guts and blood. While he’s finishing up his breathing for the day, Professor Cassondra looming over him fretfully, Kenny watches the ferocious bee nuzzle delicately, lovingly, against one of the girls’ cheeks.

\---

Now that he has—free reign to die, Kenny supposes, it happens more like it did when he was younger, before he ever put on his Mysterion costume for the first time.

Three times the week before Halloween, Kenny wakes up disorientated and dizzy with a phantom pain somewhere, back in his room in South Park.

It’s—draining. Regenerating so far away from where he died somehow feels to be putting stress on his system, more than just the needing to teleport to Hogsmede and then be chaperoned back to the castle.

Kenny strokes a hand over his chest, where a knife accidentally ruptured both of his lungs when it slipped out, freshly washed, from the hands of a startled elf. It still hurts, but no more than a cramp from when, say, he’d have to take a shit. A big one.

Moaning, he sits, up, just to hear a soft gasp.

“Kenny?”

He turns around to see Karen, sitting on the floor by his bed. Her eyes are bloodshot, face wet with tears. He drops quickly beside her, an arm around her shoulder immediately.

He tugs off his hood.

“What’s wrong?”

She sniffles, turning her face into his neck. “Kenny? Are you really here? It feels like you’re just a ghost...”

He tugs his sister into his lap and wraps his other arm around her too.

“I’m really here Karen. I have to go back to school soon, but I’m here now. What happened?” He takes her chin in his hand and moves her face, looking for bruises. Satisfied when he doesn’t see any.

“Mom and Dad were fighting again.. ‘bout the house.” That's not exactly news... and it's not what's bothering her, not really. His big brother senses just know these things.

“I just... I miss you Kenny,” She whimpers. His arms tighten around her.

“Miss you too, Karen.” He reaches for his pocket, as he’d put a small parcel in his robe that morning, every morning that week, in case he died, to give her. But cold reality strikes him when he remembers that when he’s reborn, nothing comes with him. Not even the clothes he had been wearing. They re-appear where they belong: in his drawers at home, or in his trunk at school. The robes with her gift had vanished from him, and his orange coat had materialized for his mother to wrap him up in, as she has every rebirth his whole life.

He holds on to her until it's time to say goodbye again.


	9. It continues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tweek sees the sky. Kenny does homework. A businessman grumbles under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again after so long!
> 
> I recently have been getting back into South Park thanks to Creek becoming canon, and I found some new motivation and ideas for this fic.
> 
> I'm going to make the chapters a little shorter for now so they're not as daunting :>

“Alright, Mr. Tweak, I believe I may have found a solution.” Professor Callaway sounds tired, voice thick with weight of age, yet there’s some pride in him giving a strength to his words; he’s a devoted teacher, and it would not sit well with him simply to declare a pupil incapable of anything he teaches.

Tweek might have heard that below the tones of near resignation, but the shakes overtaking his thin body numb his ears. He nods quickly and looks away.

The broom is old, very old. It is covered in streaks of dried broom polish; the body and bristles of it are painted black and white.

“A-a referee broom?” He squeaks. “I c-can’t ride that! It’s not for students!”

Callaway sighs. “Of course you can. I am giving you permission after all. It’s an old, steady broom, I’ve leant it to many students whilst they learn to fly. It’s very patient, and amenable. You should be able to request it to fly for you with no trouble.”

Tweek side-eyes the broom, waitching for sparks in the bristles or cracks in the stem to snap, just waiting to stab into him.

“Ng--Okay!” He gives in, reaching for the weathered broom. Calloway hands it over to him expectantly, watching Tweek hastily drop the broom to the ground and shuffle to the side of it.

“U-up!” He yelps, staring down the black and white thing. Slowly, wobbling as if rickety with its age, the broom levitates off the grass, floating up to meet Tweek’s outstretched hand.

“I-it came up! Oh, Merlin!” He gasps.

“Of course it did, Mister Tweak. Now, try mounting and kicking off.”

Heartened by the broom’s compliance, Tweek swings his leg over the top, and settles himself with a little hop into the invisible saddle. If he were to describe the wood he would say it has the aura of an old teacher, much like Professor Calloway himself, leading the pupil to the answers gently.

His toes just touch the ground, drifting through the blades of grass.

Pale fingers twist a wring of death around the neck of the broom, and Tweek pushes off the ground cmpletely. As soon as his toes lose contact with the earth his eyes snap shut, but there is no plummet. He strains towards the ground with the toes of his boots, but they do not even brush the grass.

In air the boy rocks forwards and back, and slowly, Tweek’s eyes open to the wide sky and endless world ahead of him.

\--

“Your spelling sucks,” Christophe sneers at him. “Dumbass.” He adds for good measure, when Kenny looks up from his potions homework: writing down the history of Wormwood and Mugwort and their various uses in contemporary magick.

“M’trying to do it by memory,” Kenny replies airily. He looks down at the growing puddle of ink beneath his quill, resting on the final letter of _artemisia annua_ , incorrectly spelled as _artemesya anora_.

“In my house we never even had oregano.” Kenny turns back to his unhelpful companion.

He scratches out his attempt and tries again. A few quiet minutes pass. Christophe sucks on his lower lip agitatedly, no pity spared for the poor boy.

“What are some common uses for wormwood in spellwork?” Kenny asks, breaking the quiet.

“Astral traveling and divination.” Christophe mutters.

Kenny scribbles it down quickly, the quill grating at the parchment loudly with each swirl of the feather.

Christophe sits back, examining the fresh layer of dirt under his nails boredly. The brunette’s homework is already completed, but with work, his other classes, and hours of the week missing due to untimely deaths, Kenny is pretty far behind.

“You came back _zis_ morning, _oui_?” The brunette asks casually, with eyes sharp on Kenny from their corners. “How many times now?”

Kenny’s lips purse. His belly still aches from the acid that ate through it; a prank gone wrong, a charm which was meant to turn juice into mead instead creating a corrosive stronger than lyme which ate through his intestines in seconds.

“A lot.”

More swirls of the quill.

“It’s really bothering me,” Kenny begins, mumbling into his collar, while a Hufflepuff and a fellow Gryffindor pass, arms laden with books bound for their own corner of the library.

“You would be retarded if it didn’t.” Christophe replies.

“It’s unusual.” Kenny insists morosely. “I haven’t died this much or often since fourth grade,” His frown deepens. “I thought I was done with this.” Granted, he’s only eleven now, but it’s been two years since this was such a regular occurence.

“Why now? Why is this happening again now?” He sets the quill down before he drags it too hard into the parchment and rips it.

Christophe stops pretending to be disinterested and pulls out his wand. He taps it twice on his knee, and takes a blank scrap of parchment from his robe. He steals Kenny’s quill, who has paused to watch him curiously, and jots something on it. He then taps it twice again with the flat tip of his wand, and on its own the small bit of parchment folds itself into a small house fly and buzzes up off the table and into the air, where it circles the boys once and flies towards the entrance of the library.

\--

“... ** _rose then from the deeps and raged against the Earth_** **,”** A slimy, deep voice hisses words to the flickering flame of a black candle, centered in the heart of a pentagram of six points.

Behind the man with the oily voice choruses a soft but tense echo, thick with nerves of anticipation running through the congregation.

“My brothers and sisters,” Says the man afront the altar. “Our time draws nearer by the hour. The sacrifice bleeds for us in constant returns and the goblet is nearly full.”

A murmur of pleased cheers rolls quietly over the collected crowd, gleefully dark but restrained as to not let their joy echo outside the basement.

“Our friends at BP are following the plan perfectly! And soon we will have dug deep enough into the chest of the earth and she will release our Lord and Master!”

More cheers, of less control and more of pearly grins. The man takes in one hand from the altar a silver chalice, engraved with swirls and twisted with a gargoyle stem decorated with two red eyes made of glass cut to resemble diamonds. In his other hand he lifts a metal travel bottle, with the words _Yoga for Life_ and a rainbow peace symbol etched along the side. He lifts both high above his head. The billowing sleeves of his grey robe pool at his shoulders, revealing the navy blue sleeves of a business suit beneath. His gold cufflinks glitter in the candle light.

“Hear me, ancient God! Rightful master of the universe! Please accept our offering tonight and claim the sacrifice again!”

He lowers his arms and pours a shot glass worth of liquid from the already open bottle into the chalice. Immediately the stench of gasoline permeates the air, thickening it with a horrifically sweet smell.

“Accept this oil, feeder of flames as our devotion to your continued might!”

The robed man turns to his altar again, the cheers of his flock buffering his straightened spine with righteousness, even as his face grows grim with anger.  
  
“Now if only the sacrifice would _stay_ dead.”


End file.
